My dad does not like wreaths. Not even at Christmas.
He tells me that when he was a child, a wreath hung on a door meant death within. He and his friends would make a wide berth as they passed by, silent.
He does not like cemeteries, either. And wonders at my fascination with them. The cemetery is one of my favorite places to walk, so full of peace and history.
But he has decided to bury her ashes. To create a place to remember. To keep her memory alive.
He’s even bought some plexiglass and glued her obituary between two plates.
From ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Here we will record her name and years.
And so he has come today with a few family members.
The place has been prepared for us.
Sissy and I spread some Christmas green satin.
It seems wrong to take pictures.
But already so many visions are fading.
And I don’t want to forget.
Sissy tells me how she hurried to leave work so she could get home and “shrink wrap Mom” before our 3 o’clock gathering. She’s covered the urn to protect it and tied it with a white bow.
I don’t take a picture.
Dad wants to hold it.
He clutches the urn to his chest in the cold.
“There’s room for both of us,” he says.
I don’t take a picture of him, fingers intertwined around it.
I don’t take a picture of him as he kneels in the snow to place it in the ground.
I don’t take a picture of my sister kneeling next to him as together they swaddle it.
Or of my brother stepping forward to help him to his feet.
I wish I had.
I still struggle with the thought of my mother being reduced to dust and contained in this small vessel.
Yet I know it does not house her spirit that with one last shudder of the body flew heavenward.
I was there.
We say some words, words we’ve pulled from other ceremonies, added some of our own.
Here we will come from time to time bearing tributes of beauty and fragrance in her memory.
We read a couple of poems.
The grands and great-grands sprinkle flower petals saved from the memorial service, the gifts they gave then. Our Dutch friends each place a tulip.
Then one by one, we sprinkle sand from the lake and dirt from the yard.
Almighty God . . . we commit to you our wife, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, Bernie, who has passed beyond our sight and will celebrate Christmas with you face-to-face . . . you know our sadness and our pain and our sense of loss. But we rejoice that for Mom there is no pain, and there are no tears. There’s no more night. And maybe there’s no more snow. Or if there is, perhaps she’s been re-engineered to love it.
We sing a couple of verses of Amazing Grace.
Sissy and I plan to fill the earth’s wound after everyone has gone, but Dad wants to do it.
My brother brings the wheelbarrow, and they fill together. Then place the cut sod on top. My father pushes the stake bearing her name into it.
And it’s over.
In the spring, we’ll plan something more permanent to mark this place. Perhaps Dad can build and carve a bench.
After everyone leaves, Sissy and I smooth things out, even things up.
And now God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, courage to change the things we can, and wisdom to know the difference. Fill us with creativity and compassion. Help us to enjoy life, to move through it with a quick wit and grace. Help us to love and laugh and live each day in Mom’s memory, knowing that we will one day meet again.
It’s late afternoon. Sissy and Niecey and I go back to Mom and Dad’s–I mean, Dad’s–where he’s made some hot coffee and wait for our hands and feet to warm. We eat some left-over brunch casserole and some of Dad’s banana bread.
I feel my legs tingle as they thaw.
When I download my pictures, I see Sissy sneaked some of Dad and me as we puzzle some pieces.
As he talks politics, and I listen and nod.
When Sissy and Niecey are gone, we watch his shows–Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.
I think about shrink wrap and how I’ve felt gathered and tied up in the love and prayers of friends.
How we’re shrink wrapped in Him.
I doze off and on, something I do a lot lately.
Tomorrow I will go home.
And prepare to unwrap Christmas.
To celebrate the One who set aside His glory and entered our dust.
So that the dust could not hold us.
And I’m so very grateful.
I am the Resurrection and the Life; because I live, you shall live also. We do not sorrow as those who have no hope.
Shrink wrapped today with Laura and Laura and Ann and Jen and Emily.
Always, always – as I read your words and look at the pictures I think, “Grace.” You have walked through this with the evidence of His grace filling your heart and spilling out to all of us. Praying for you during this Christmas season – for His peace and comfort – and thankful for the hope He brought with Him that long ago day.
Oh Sandy…there aren’t words. Love you dear friend.
This is the post I can’t write, Sandy.
It’s beautiful. More love to you.
Thank you for allowing us to glimpse this sacred place, prayers for you all.
Your post is beautiful–what a tribute to your mom, dad, and Father in heaven. You have moved me to tears with your perspective of peace. Indeed, we are shrink-wrapped in His love.
I am very sorry for your loss, and I pray you will feel God’s comfort, especially during this Christmas season.
Such beautiful thoughts and words. Thank you for letting us share in such a personal moment.
God bless you and Merry Christmas!
(visiting from SDG)
Kristin
Sandy,
Thank you for this.
My heart is with you.
I agree with Linda. Full of grace. That’s you. It seems a beautiful way to lay someone to rest, with tulips and greenery and loved ones all around. Even if it’s not the essence of here there, it’s beautiful, Sandy. Love to you.
As I read, I think I heard my heart breaking open. I think I felt myself fall into that place where there is only love. That place you lead me to with your words and sharing.
Thank you.
Sandra, I am so exhausted right now that I can only skim read. I just came over to tell you that you are in my heart. xoxoxo
Oh Sandy, my heart fills with an understanding and thankfulness that you wrote what I couldn’t. So many similarities. I like to think of our moms meeting each other and laughing about how fun it is that you and I got to meet here on earth. Regardless, it will be a grand reunion.
Simple. And simple is beauty, and beauty is grace, and for grace we hold on through it all.
Jesus comes to us like this at Christmas, he so true and alive and holy, and we broken and bearing loss and hoping beyond hope for more.
Lifting you up.
I think you took pictures of exactly the right things. I didn’t take any when we buried my mom’s urn. I should have.
You bear witness well, Sandy, to both grief and hope. Christmas with Jesus. Sounds perfect.
Your words are bittersweet and beautiful and it is ever so evident that you are shrink-wrapped in Him and that you desire to shrink wrap others in His love and your love, entwined.
Each word seems to underline the blessing of family that is so needed in sorrow. I love how you are allowing our Heavenly Father to love you. And how willing you are to “accept what you cannot change.” How blessed your mother is to have so many who love her — and to celebrate Christmas in Heaven.
Such beautiful words. You painted the picture in such a way that I wondered if I should be reading such private moments. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m so thankful that you and your family find hope in “the One who entered our dust.”
I’m going to have to back up and finish reading your beautiful post- I’m crying- I’m so glad you know my Jesus, so glad. How does the rest of the world even bear it? Someday I’ll meet her – she may be discussing us with my friend Jeffrey right now (just posted about him) Lifting you and your family up in prayer right now – and through the season.God bless –
There is nothing more difficult than saying the final good bye to a parent. My heart aches for you.
Linking up, dear Sandra.
Praying for your sweet family.
Oh oh oh. I just found this one. Thank you for it, for its realness and rawness and beauty. As I read it, I remember my father’s burial service and feel inspired to write about it a little. Maybe soon. Maybe.
Beautiful and sad and touching, all at the same time. I’m happy for your mom, and hurt for you and your dad.
Love you.
I just found your blog from Duane Scott’s blog. I’m so glad I did.
Just beautiful and touching. I felt like I was ‘on holy ground’ with you.
Praying for you, your father and the rest of your family.
The first holiday after a loss is so hard. Keeping you and your family in my thoughts and prayers.