Today in a supermarket checkout queue, I advised an elderly lady that if she was thinking of dying, she would be better off doing it before the till operator started scanning. After all, you can’t take the groceries with you.

There I was, waiting to pay for my shopping, behind a gentleman and his wife who appeared to be purchasing sufficient provisions to feed the entire population of East Yorkshire for a month - maybe more. Their trolley was overflowing. I was tempted to ask whether his name was Noah and was the Arc outside? Nothing like government advice to stock up in case of cyberattacks on the banking system to empty the shelves - assuming of course you are lucky enough to have some spare cash to pay for the contingency planning. Strangely, there were no toilet rolls in his cache of items.

In the store, a certain brand of still water had been been completely cleared out. As a side comment, and this is not a joke, I do know of someone who right now, has an entire room stocked up with loo rolls - just in case. The store manager was berating the government for scaremongering about a nuclear attack. There was no bottled water left on the shelves. Well I do agree that if a mushroom cloud were to appear outside my window, there would definitely be an urgent need for loo rolls. And in the time honoured tradition, in the face of a crisis we would need to put the kettle on. It makes perfect sense to stock up with water - and tea.

Behind me stood an elderly lady with a modest basket containing just a few items. I sensed loneliness and sadness. I suggested she go ahead of me. She was delighted. Such a simple gesture, yet she thanked me with a warmth that suggested she hadn't encountered quite enough kindness lately. As we waited for the couple in front to finish transferring their contents of a small warehouse through the checkout, we began chatting about the woes of the world and the cost of things. Then, she said something rather unexpected. She was pleased, she told me, to be at this end of her life.

There was something quite touching about the remark. Perhaps she had known suffering. Perhaps she was simply tired of the world's troubles. I didn't know her story, and it wasn't my place to enquire. So, naturally, I offered her some tongue in cheek practical advice. If she really was thinking of departing this life, I suggested, it would be cheaper to do so before going through the checkout. At least she wouldn't have to pay for the shopping. She - and the checkout operator - burst out laughing. The senior lady thanked me for brightening her day. She was still smiling as she headed for the exit. I mean the supermarket exit - just to avoid potential reader confusion.

I had gone shopping for groceries and, quite unexpectedly, encountered something far more nourishing. There is nothing wrong with sensible preparation, of course. But we do have a remarkable talent for worrying about things that haven't happened while overlooking the blessings right under our noses. Jesus knew all about that.

In St Matthew's Gospel, he asks: "Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?" (Matthew 6:27)

It's an uncomfortable question, particularly for those of us who have spent half an hour worrying about something that subsequently never happened. Jesus wasn't telling his followers to be careless or irresponsible. He was teaching them not to become prisoners of anxiety. Remember how he fed the five thousand? The disciples saw a hungry crowd and an impossible shortage of provisions. Five loaves and two fish were hardly the foundations of a reassuring supply chain.

Yet Jesus took what was available, gave thanks to his Father, and fed the people. And there were leftovers. No panic buying. No argument at the checkout. No emergency meeting about the availability of bottled water. Just the extraordinary generosity of God.

By the time I had finished my expedition, my bill had reached a sum that in my teens would have secured a respectable second-hand motor car. But something happened as I stepped outside. The autumn air was fresh. The breeze was wonderful. The trees were changing colour, and the world seemed extraordinarily beautiful.

And I found myself thanking the Lord. Not for the shopping bill, I hasten to add. Even Christian gratitude has its limits. I thanked him for being alive. For the ability to walk out of the supermarket into that glorious autumn afternoon. For the breath in my lungs, the movement of the trees, the warmth of human conversation, and the laughter of a woman I would probably never meet again. None of these things had appeared on my receipt. Yet they were worth more than everything in my shopping bags.

And I began thinking about that elderly lady. She was pleased to be near the end of her life. I was delighted simply to be alive. Perhaps, in our different ways, we were both recognising something that Jesus had been trying to teach humanity for two thousand years. Life is a gift. But it is not a possession we can hold on to indefinitely.

And that brings us to November. When the Church remembers those who have gone before us November has a particular character in the Catholic Church. On 1 November we celebrate All Saints, rejoicing in those who already share the life of heaven. On 2 November, All Souls' Day, we pray for the faithful departed. Throughout the month, we remember those whose absence still leaves an empty chair at the table and an ache in the heart.

Our parents. Our husbands and wives. Our brothers and sisters. Old friends. Parishioners whose familiar faces we still half expect to see at Mass. Sometimes we remember them with tears. Sometimes with laughter. Indeed, some of the most wonderful conversations about departed loved ones begin with the words, "Do you remember when he..." And before long, everybody is laughing.

I rather suspect that heaven has room for laughter. Jesus certainly knew how to attend a wedding feast, enjoy a meal with friends and turn an ordinary gathering into something memorable. But when it came to death, he never treated human sorrow lightly. Consider the death of his friend Lazarus. When Jesus arrived at Bethany, Lazarus had been dead for four days. His sisters, Martha and Mary, were overwhelmed with grief. And what did Jesus do? He wept. "Jesus wept." (John 11:35)

Two words. Among the shortest and most beautiful in all Scripture. The Son of God, who knew what he was about to do, stood beside a grave and wept with those who were grieving. He did not tell Mary and Martha to pull themselves together. He did not suggest that their sadness revealed a lack of faith. He shared their sorrow.

Then he gave Martha one of the greatest promises ever spoken: "I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live." (John 11:25) And he called Lazarus out of the tomb. Just imagine the scene. Four days dead, and suddenly Lazarus was back among the living.

I have often wondered what he thought when he emerged. After all, he'd already been through dying once. And now he had to face the prospect of doing it all over again eventually. Perhaps that is one reason Scripture doesn't record his immediate reaction. But the miracle reveals something wonderful about Jesus.

Death does not have the final word. God does. This is why November is so much more than a month of fond memories. We Catholics pray for those who have died because we believe that love does not end at the grave. The Church teaches that those who die in God's friendship, but still need purification, are prepared by his mercy for the fullness of heaven. That is what we mean by purgatory. Not a second chance to choose God after death, nor some celestial punishment administered by an unusually severe headmaster. It is the final purification of those who are saved, so that nothing remains to hinder their perfect union with him. And so we pray.

We offer Masses for the departed. We remember them in our daily prayers. We commend them to the infinite mercy of Christ. We do not know all that lies beyond death. But we know whom we shall meet. And we know something of his heart. Remember the criminal crucified beside Jesus? His life was almost over. He could offer no great accomplishments, no impressive record of charitable activity, no promise of years of good behaviour.

Only a simple prayer: "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." (Luke 23:42) And Jesus answered: "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." (Luke 23:43) What an extraordinary answer. Here was a dying man who had nothing left to give, speaking to a dying Saviour who was giving everything.

And mercy met him there. That is the Jesus we honour in November. Not a distant judge indifferent to human suffering, but the Saviour who weeps beside a grave, welcomes the repentant sinner and conquers death through his own Resurrection.

And what of the lady with the basket? I keep returning in my thoughts to that elderly lady. I don't know her name. I don't know whether she lives alone, whether she has family nearby, or what experiences have led her to look upon the end of life with such acceptance. But I know that for a few minutes, two strangers shared a little kindness and a great deal of laughter.

Jesus once said: "Just as you did it to one of the least of these ... you did it to me." (Matthew 25:40) We usually associate those words with feeding the hungry, visiting the sick and caring for the poor. Quite rightly. But they should also make us attentive to the little opportunities for kindness that pass before us every day. A lonely neighbour. Someone struggling with their shopping. A bereaved friend who has heard quite enough well-meaning advice and would dearly love somebody simply to sit and listen. Or an elderly lady carrying a basket while the rest of East Yorkshire appears to be stocking up for the Apocalypse.

We cannot remove every sorrow. We cannot prevent every illness. We cannot escape our own mortality. But we can make somebody's journey through life a little less lonely. And when we do, we are putting Christ's teaching into practice. Not to earn our way into heaven, which is God's gift of grace, but because his love is already calling us to love one another.

In November, perhaps we might do three simple things. Remember someone who has died, and pray for the repose of their soul. Notice someone who is still living and might need a little kindness. And thank the Lord, perhaps more often than we do, for the astonishing gift of being alive. Even on an ordinary Tuesday. Even with the shopping bill. Even when the supermarket has run out of water.

Because the greatest security we possess is not a well-stocked cupboard, a healthy bank account or the comforting belief that we have plenty of years ahead.

It is the promise of Jesus Christ. "I am the resurrection and the life." One day, each of us will reach the end of our earthly journey. There will be no more shopping lists, no more anxious predictions, no more bills to pay. And certainly no more queues.

Until then, we have people to love, kindness to offer, prayers to say and a beautiful world to enjoy. And perhaps, every now and then, an elderly stranger to make laugh.

And when my own time comes, I doubt the Lord will be terribly interested in the state of my bank account, my emergency water supplies, or how much I managed to cram into a supermarket trolley.

He may, however, ask whether I noticed the lady with the basket.

Amen.