My paternal great-grandparents came from England in 1880, and made their way west to settle in the area I still think of as Home in 1882, when my grandfather was four years old. Our family were some of the first European settlers in the area. My great-grandmother is buried in that little cemetery (after her death, my great-grandfather returned to England, and he is buried there). My grandparents are buried there, and now my parents will be — and some day my pottery urn, lovingly handcrafted by the same artist friend who made Mum’s and Dad’s urns, will be laid to rest next to those of my parents. The cemetery looks toward the farm where I grew up — the land that was our land is just across the narrow dirt road. The farmland directly east of the cemetery is the piece of land that Dad loved best on earth. That soil is a part of us, and now Mum and Dad will become a part of it. Earth to earth…
On Saturday afternoon, as we stand together in that cemetery that holds so many of the friends and family I have loved, I will sing one of my hymns, which begins
Like a crocus on the prairie,
Like a rose in midst of thorn,
Hope can flower in the desert,
Help us bear what must be borne.
Like a rose in midst of thorn,
Hope can flower in the desert,
Help us bear what must be borne.
In words that I used in the memorial card at Dad’s service in January –
May we be granted the grace and strength
to fully live our lives til the end of our days,
and then take flight to our next destination with joy.
to fully live our lives til the end of our days,
and then take flight to our next destination with joy.
thought about you today and had my mom say a prayer when she went to mass this evening.
ReplyDeletehugs...
Thank you so much, Colleen!
ReplyDelete*hugs*