Grace and Gratitude

I know many of you were holding me in your thoughts yesterday -- thank you -- so I want to share with you some of the events of the day.

If you’ve read my previous post, you’ll know that on Saturday, July 9, I traveled out of the city to the small country cemetery near our farm, for the interment of ashes of both my parents.


It was a glorious day, both in terms of weather and in terms of the experience itself. I couldn’t have asked for better for my Mum and Dad. There wasn’t even a wisp of cloud in the wide prairie sky; it was warm but not uncomfortably hot; there was enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes at bay; because of all the rain we’ve had, the grass in the cemetery was green, rather than the usual dry prairie tawny gold; and I was surrounded by the love of members of my extended family, and my family of friends, of all the family and friends who have gone before, and of all my wonderful extended family of online friends whom I know were holding me in their thoughts as the service progressed.

That morning, as I got ready for the day, I suddenly wished that I had thought to purchase two roses to leave on the grave. I didn’t have time at that point to go out to a florist, nor did I want to call a friend at such a late moment to do this for me. I reconciled myself to not having roses for Mum and Dad — although roses have always marked special observances for our family. When I got to the cemetery, I found that two friends from the city, whom I’d thought were unable to attend, were there — and the dear lady had two red roses with her! She had followed an inner prompting to buy two red roses, separate and yet tied together. She was hesitant at the cemetery, because no one else had flowers — and then I went up to them to greet them, saw the roses, and said, “You must have read my mind!” She was so grateful that she had followed that inner prompting, and had provided that which I needed. Serendipity? Grace? Surely there was guidance of some sort at work.

The wonderful funeral director who had been with me through Mum’s service and Dad’s drove the limo to take us out to the cemetery, and arranged every part of the service graciously and with gentle care. I so appreciate his presence through all these transition points in my life.

Although there were, as I have said, many of my extended family there, there were two first cousins who were able to travel down to my home, and accompany me to the graveside. As the service began, the cousin representing Mum’s side of the family carried Mum’s urn to the graveside, while the cousin representing Dad’s side of the family bore Dad’s urn. It was a deeply meaningful moment for me. I carried the roses my friend had brought, and lay them next to the urns at the graveside.

A dear minister friend stood beside me, and offered words of Scripture and of comfort, and then asked me to speak. I had no notes, I’d made no specific plans about what to say, I just spoke from my heart, using some of the phrases I had used in my previous blog post, about the prairie grass, and the wind in the trees surrounding us, the feeling of being surrounded by a “great cloud of witnesses” (as in a passage from Hebrews 12 in the Bible), the comfort of looking out from the spot where we were standing to my grandparents’ farm, and knowing our farm was so near as well, and knowing how much Dad had loved the land immediately adjacent to the cemetery. I spoke of the hymn I had written, and how when Mum and I had talked a year or more ago about what she would like on her urn, she had decided she wanted the words of that hymn — so our dear potter/artist friend crafted an urn with the words of the first verse of that hymn, and depictions of wild roses and prairie crocuses. Dad’s urn had depictions of stalks of wheat, to signify his love for the land and for farming. By then my voice was breaking, and tears were running down my cheeks, but I was able to sing one more time for Mum and Dad. Mum used to tell me that she would draw strength from her audience, and indeed, I did so yesterday. Focusing on the meaning of the words and using my voice to convey that meaning — as well as singing for an audience of two, Mum and Dad — got me through that solo, and I was so grateful that I’d been able to sing for them once more.

The funeral director had asked if I’d like to be part of the lowering of the urns, and I’d said I would, so when the time came, he put each urn into its cloth bag and steadied me as I knelt (no mean feat for these arthritic knees!) and lowered Mum’s urn into her grave, then Dad’s into his. I had an opportunity that way for a personal, quiet word of “Goodbye, Mama”, “Goodbye, Daddy”. After most of the people had left, just before my cousin began filling in the graves, I put one red rose in with Dad’s urn, and one with Mum’s.

After the service, we drove into town to the church we used to attend, where the ladies had prepared a lunch for us. There were some folk there who’d not been at the graveside, all dearly familiar folk from my growing-up years. It was so good to be among them.

It was, indeed, a day filled with moments of grace and gratitude.