Category Archives: Life’s disappointments

Back to the Cemetery

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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 7th, 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 smallWhen 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)

Forgetting and remembering

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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)

Widow for One Week

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It’s been seven days since Nate died. All day I’ve been mentally replaying the hours of that significant day, dwelling on them, savoring them (although that sounds strange) and sharing them somehow with Nate. Those sharing times are all but over, though, and the distance between us will feel greater and greater as the days pass.

My heart craves quietness. As is true of anyone who’s lost someone precious, I want to spend time thinking about Nate. Talking about him is satisfying, too, but that isn’t always possible. It seems important to go over the last weeks in mental detail. I don’t know if I’m looking for negatives or positives, but I want to look back for a while. People tell me I should have a future focus, and I’m sure I will eventually, but right now I’m all about remembering.

Today I went on my first outing alone in weeks. It was strange to be running errands by myself, and it occurred to me I didn’t have to watch the clock, since Nate wouldn’t be waiting for me at home, a bittersweet discovery. As I mingled with busy crowds of strangers, it made me lonely to realize not one of them knew about my husband’s death. I wondered if anyone would look at my worn out face with the smudged mascara and care that I was sad.

On the drive home at 5:30, which I decided to take at a speed below the limit, the overcast sky had one thin band of blue just above the horizon. Although we hadn’t seen the sun all day, as I headed south, suddenly it broke through with brilliance, turning the clouds to gold. During those fifteen miles the sky became iridescent with color, and I absolutely had to find a place to get a better view.

Pulling off at an exit with a “State Park” sign, I ended up in a deserted beachfront parking lot facing the lake and the sunset. “Great is Thy Faithfulness” came on the radio, and it seemed natural to talk out loud to God.

“What do you want me to be thinking about right now?” I asked him.

“The heavens declare the glory of God,” he answered with a quote from Scripture, “and the firmament shows his handiwork.” (Psalm 19:1)

“Yes,” I responded. “You do spectacular work. The sky is magnificent. You are magnificent. I love you.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to talk to the Lord right there in my minivan. Yet it was a conversation with someone I couldn’t see, touch or hear audibly. Was I crazy?

I’ve been sure of God’s closeness as we’ve walked through the last seven weeks of disease and death. He’s shown himself in the details all along the way, not literally like a hiding person might peek around the corner but like the wind might move something, proving its reality. And if he is really near, why not talk to him?

I am a widow. Even though my week-long status is settling over me with a mixture of sorrow and heartache, that’s what I am. But it’s not all bad. The Bible is full of passages making mention of women in this category. God promises special protection for us and deals harshly with anyone who harms us. We’re to be relieved of burdens too heavy to carry, and we’re to look to others to plead our case as needed.

Looking at these verses stunned me. I knew widows were close to God’s heart, but I never “owned” the Scriptures like I do now. My favorite passage (below) makes me realize it was perfectly fine to talk out loud to the Lord in my car this afternoon. He says he is stepping into Nate’s position in my life, and I completely believe him.

“Your Maker is your husband, the Lord of hosts is his name, and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer, the God of the whole earth he is called.” (Isaiah 54:5)