Back to the Cemetery

Posted on November 17, 2009 by Margaret

I’ve helped plan three funerals… so far… and at each one I’ve been surprised at how fast that day unfolds. Once the service begins, there is no time to talk to friends or even family. As the service ends, guests file past the casket, are ushered outdoors and are gone. Family members gather briefly for a last look, the casket is closed, and everyone fans out to the cars.

Once at the cemetery, protocol separates family members from others. At Nate’s graveside, we were able to focus briefly on the pastor’s words, but then the casket was quickly lowered from view and the event was over. There wasn’t time to think, much less process what had just occurred. On that day, November 7^th, as I sat in the center chair facing Nate’s casket, I knew I’d want to return to the cemetery soon, to collect my thoughts.

Today was the day.

After driving Hans, Katy and baby Nicholas from Michigan to O’Hare Airport in Chicago to begin their journey back to England, I drove across the city to Rose Hill Cemetery. Despite the curvy lanes between grave yard sections, finding Nate’s burial site was easy. Our family has come to this spot every Memorial Day for decades, sharing memories about the six people already buried in the family plot: my mom and dad, my grandfather and grandmother, my great uncle, and dad’s baby brother. After the cemetery visit, we always share a picnic and a baseball game.

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Although most people shy away from trips to the cemetery, our family counts them among our most important traditions. Since toddlerhood, our kids have been taught that death is part of life and is not to be feared. I have a picture of Dad standing with his hand on the grave marker as he told us, “My father told me, as we buried my mother, that one day we would also bury him there. And we did. I can say the same about me. One day you’ll bury me here, too.” A few years later, we did.

Mom used to say, as she helped our pre-schoolers plant flowers around the big headstone, “Every day, we’re all one step closer to the grave, and I can’t wait, because that’ll mean I’ll be with Jesus.”

The day we buried Mom, her 15 grandkids cried hard, but they’d been prepped for that moment by Grandma herself. They were told ahead of time about her departure and all knew she had happily taken up residence in heaven. They’d heard it from her own mouth.

But what about Nate? Today, as I stood at the foot of his grave in a chilly wind, I couldn’t help having another moment of this-can’t-possibly-be-real. At my feet was a section of fresh sod four feet wide and nine feet long. Three urns of funeral flowers were lying on their sides next to the sod. Was it possible my husband was buried beneath my feet, lying there in his new grey suit? Hadn’t I just told him how good he looked in it, the first time he wore it to work? Hadn’t he been to court wearing it the day we learned of his cancer? How could he now be dead and buried in it?

I thought back to Memorial Day of this year when our family gathered again at that exact spot, 24 of us. In one of the pictures taken that day, Nate is sharing a memory while standing exactly over the spot where his body would soon be buried. Although none of us were thinking about the possibility of a 2009 death for him or anybody else as we stood at the cemetery that day, God had specific funeral plans for my husband, five months later. We can’t explain the Lord’s timing, and Nate’s burial was an agonizing family milestone, but to a certain extent, we’d been prepared. As we drove in behind the hearse that carried his casket, it was not creepy or scary. All of us were arriving at a familiar place of warm family memories. Besides, we knew the whole truth.

Cemeteries are all about death, and death is appalling. But one of the reasons we got through Nate’s burial fairly well was because of the years of stories about our relatives whose bodies are beneath the cemetery grass on which we’ve stood each Memorial Day. As we’ve remembered them each year, we’ve been sure their souls were not dead but were experiencing “joy unspeakable” (1 Peter 1:8) in heaven. Our rich Christian heritage has covered the horror of death with the scriptural promise of eternal life.

Today, as I shivered from the cold and the emotion of the moment, I got back into the car and started the engine to get some heat. A CD came to life playing my favorite hymn, “To God Be the Glory”:

“Great things He has taught us. Great things He has done,

And great our rejoicing through Jesus the Son,

But purer and higher and greater will be

Our wonder, our transport, when Jesus we see.”

The whole truth of Nate’s presence in the cemetery is that he isn’t really under that sod. His body-shell is there, inside his grey suit. But the real him has taken up residence elsewhere. The ugly reality of death has been gobbled up by victory through Jesus and his all-inclusive death on the cross.

“Just as there are natural bodies, there are also spiritual bodies. cemetery sod small When our dying bodies have been transformed into bodies that will never die, this Scripture will be fulfilled: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Corinthians 15:44, 54-55, 57)

Weekly Cards

Posted on November 15, 2009 by Margaret

Some fathers are gifted to relate well to babies and young children. Others do better with school aged youngsters. Nate was his best with college kids and the years beyond. He grew into an adult relationship with each one of our kids effortlessly as they passed from late teens into twenty-somethings and older.

Every Sunday afternoon, Nate’s main activity was to write to each one of his children who lived away from home, whether that was in college, at camp, on a mission trip or adult kids living on their own. His “letters” were written on simple index cards, sometimes 3 x 5, sometimes 4 x 6, in his often illegible penmanship. Sometimes he wrote in bullet points, and the kids joked about how much information he could pack onto one card. All of them saved these cards.

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When he wrote to the kids, he often summarized our week at home but other times would challenge them at a deeper level or commiserate with their current problems. Sometimes he quoted a verse or two, and many times he’d make a point of telling them how much he loved them.

When Nate learned he had terminal cancer, one of the things he wanted to do before he died was write out one last card for each of the kids. His goal was to meet with them individually to give them the card and also give them each an opportunity to clear the air, in case there were any issues they wanted to discuss with him. He was ready for anything, including possible criticisms, and wanted to apologize if any of them had something bothering them from the past. He told me he wanted to express fatherly love for each one and then would deliver his last card.

His pancreatic cancer was, as one of my friends put it, a “damnable cancer.” It raced through his body like a million bolts of lightning, missing nothing in its assault. And the sad truth was, Nate ran out of time to do everything he wanted. Once he’d told me about his goal to meet with each of the seven kids and have a card ready for them, I encouraged him to do one card each day after we spent time talking about that particular son or daughter.

He had only six weeks total, although we didn’t know that then, and a couple of weeks slipped by as we were consumed with radiation, separate doctor appointments and endless tests. But not one day went by when he didn’t say, “I hope I can work on the cards today.” By the third week, he was worn out, and we could both see he might run out of time if he didn’t get it done soon. It was becoming difficult to write, and when he was exhausted, it was hard to concentrate.

At that point, he asked if he could dictate the cards to me while I typed on the computer. We tried to complete one each day in this way, climbing in the car and leaving the commotion at home if necessary, in order to get them done.

We did finish them, but by that time, Nate’s health had deteriorated so rapidly, we both feared the one-on-one meetings might not happen. There were many one-on-one conversations in bits and pieces, but the planned meetings to deliver the cards did not take place.

Tonight after dinner I passed out the completed cards. The author has been gone for 12 days. As I watched the kids quietly read them, I started to cry, wishing Nate had not died. We’d had an animated family day, and I just couldn’t believe he hadn’t been a part of it.

Reading Nate’s last pointed communication to them, some of the kids began to cry, too. It was a powerful few moments as the fire crackled and nobody spoke. I’ll probably never know the variety of emotions that rushed through each of their minds, but in a way, the most important part of the evening was that Nate was indeed very much present, through his words. As always, the cards were encouraging, complimenting, challenging and loving.

^“But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.” (1 Corinthians 13-13)

Forgetting and remembering

Posted on November 14, 2009 by Margaret

Yesterday at breakfast Linnea asked me, “Are you thinking about Papa?”

I answered, “Every minute.”

His face and influence fill my mind. Reminders of him are everywhere, and even though they are bittersweet, I’m thankful for them.

This afternoon when I was in the bathroom, I thought I heard Nate’s voice in the living room. For that split second, he was back. When I realized the voice belonged to Hans, I was yanked again to the nauseating reality of his permanent absence, and it hurt. I was glad for that instant when life was as it had been.

Nate was a man who enjoyed a regular routine. He would leave the office at the same moment every afternoon, climb on the same train and drive from the station to our house within a minute or two of the same time every evening.

He also delighted in the same bedtime routine each night, and part of his routine for himself was doing something for me. Knowing I liked to have water at my bedside, he’d fill a big glass and set it on my night stand. When I saw him walking toward the bedroom with that glass, I’d always say, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can get it.”

But he’d always respond, “I want to do it.” small glass of water

After we learned of his cancer, he continued the water glass ritual. Our bedroom at the cottage was upstairs, and that 14 step climb became more and more difficult for him. Even after he should have been holding tightly to the railing, he used that hand to carry up my water instead.

Nate began his bedtime routine earlier and earlier as the cancer wore him out. I would climb on the bed with him each evening to read emails, blog comments and greeting cards until he fell asleep. Then I’d go back downstairs to continue working. When I’d finally be ready for bed, I’d step quietly into our dark bedroom and head for my night stand, carefully feeling for the water glass. Without fail, it was always there.

I remember so well the night I came into the room well after midnight, hearing Nate’s deep breathing. I felt for my water glass, but it wasn’t there for the first time in literally years. That jolted me.

The next morning I made a point of thanking him for being so kind in always bringing the water to my bedside, explaining how I felt for it in the dark each night. When it was always there, I told him, my thought was, “He’s faithful.” I didn’t mention the glass hadn’t been there the night before. It was the beginning of the end for that part of Nate’s routine. Increased pain and intense fatigue were responsible.

When he could no longer do it, I tried to remember to do it myself but never could. Just as I was climbing into bed I’d think, “Oh. The water,” and head back to the kitchen for a glass. Last night was the first time I remembered to get the water before actually going to the bedroom. When I’d been forgetting the water, it was a sweet reminder of Nate’s faithful care, because as I headed back to the kitchen to get it, I thought fondly of him. But remembering the water was a mini-forgetting of Nate, and sadness ran through me when I realized it.

And I guess this is how it will go. Remembering, forgetting, remembering, forgetting.

“[I] give thanks to God always for you, making mention of you in [my] prayers, constantly bearing in mind your work of faith and labor of love.” (1 Thessalonians 1:2-3)

”I will remember… in the night. I will meditate with my heart, and my spirit ponders.” (Psalm 77:6)