The words triggered one of those grief waves.
One in which I remember my mom wheeling out to the living room to say she was rooting for the Yankees while we whooped it up for the Tigers. It’s the last memory I have of being at home with her before her fall.
Who knew that in three months she’d be gone?
I regret not spending more time with her.
She wanted to be cremated. But the thought of her reduced to a small pile of ashes I could sift through my fingers still undoes me.
“It’s just her body,” says my husband.
I know that her spirit took that final journey straight into His arms.
I stand before him as he dips his finger, close my eyes and feel the sign of the cross on my forehead.
He does not speak the words I expect. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
He says one word. “Remember.”
I tear the bread and dip it.
His body broken.
His blood shed.
And I remember.
Remember how Jesus fixed His eyes on Jerusalem and set out for His final journey.
Remember His tears and how He took all my regrets to the cross.
Remember that moments pass like sifted dust but that each moment passes first through His fingers.
Remember that this journey could end with one more breath, that each moment is a gift.
Remember that others will remember, that I carve memories in their minds.
Remember that He remembers me because He’s carved me in his palms.
Remember to fix my eyes on Him so I can run the race and finish this journey without falling.
Remember that one day my spirit will fall into His arms.
And into hers.