(originally drafted 1/17/12)
I remember this day, 17 years ago, very clearly - so clearly as if it were a running film feed playing automatically on the television displayed in the patient waiting room of the local hospital. Alas, it isn't merely some video; rather, it is real. The reality is that 17 years ago today, momma went from a radiant, vibrant, intelligent, vessel of abundant goodness to a mere handful of dust.
Her friends and coworkers, even some individuals with whom I've been in contact years later who have heard the story, have inquired as to why momma chose to be cremated rather than buried. Well, my first response has always been: Because that's what she requested! This is then usually followed up with another question: "Why didn't she have a funeral or an obituary?" Again, because mom specifically asked that no fuss be made when she passed away; it's what she requested.
And so I honor[ed] it.
In the years since then, I have done (and continue to do) what's within my capability to pay tribute to mom life, and focus more on the fact she lived. After all, that's what she would have wanted. She was such a simple, humble soul, that having any sort of pomp and circumstance dwelling on her passing would not be her "style", so to speak. I have had moments when the thought of having a gravestone close by to visit may be nice, so I can visit and contemplate and try to "channel" her energy, so to speak, with regard to particularly arduous situations/experiences.
And that's when I realize being close to momma is not necessarily about proximity (though, it would certainly be wonderful to have that), nor do I need a grave marker to visit to feel closer to her...
What I love about the Gospel (and what attracted me to investigate in the first place) is the concept of Eternal Life. Many religions purport the concept - or at least part of the concept - that death is merely a stage along the way, and that our souls continue to exist beyond the grave. Yet, the Gospel tenets teach that our soul and body are not mutually exclusive. We, beyond the veil, shall have our soul (spirit) be one with our body again in the eternities. And, it won't simply be a body, but a perfected body.
So, while momma's cancer-ravaged body has since been reduced to a velvety gray handful of dust that slipped through my fingers, onto and around the smallest pine tree growing up through the snow-capped mountains of Green Valley Falls, on January 17, 1995.... her unceasingly influential and inspiring spirit will have a healthy, perfect body again on that Triumphant Day.
And knowing this makes me vastly more appreciative for a body that is now, unlike last January, is healthier. And that my spirit is a bit better than it was last January, too. And that, for the most part, the two are working together as a team. Which is a blessing.
Alas, I digress.
Back to the "handful of dust" reference.
So, yes, mom was cremated and I spread her ashes around fledgling pine tree 17 years ago today. I still remember this so clearly. My father, of all people, had come from Hawaii upon my request, and drove my mom's gray Pontiac GrandAm up the windy-twisty mountains to Green Valley Falls. I had wondered why mom requested to have her ashes spread there, but as soon as we arrived it was clear. It looked like a snapshot from her childhood home in Pulaski. There were evergreens and snow everywhere. I walked a few yards and found a tiny, baby pine tree in the midst of towering, majestic pines, and thought: Here, here it is. I can circle this tree with your ashes, and your ashes will help it grow, and then you can grow all over again with this tree - always 'green', always living, and always giving me the air that I breathe [trees give us oxygen, ya know]... Even in death, you'll be living.
So, when my graveyard shift ended at 9:13 a.m. this morning (ironically, the time I was born), I remembered that there's a tree I planted back in April 2003 (April is mom's birth month) in a neighboring park as part of a local cancer awareness endeavor. I walked the mile from my place of work to this park to find that, indeed, my tree was still there - so much taller than it was when it was originally planted as a fledgling nearly nine years prior. And it still has the original accompanied plaque that bears mommy's (and others') name. The tree was - and is - strong, sturdy, and still standing...
I stood there at the base of this tree, and smiled. Then, realizing the bus home would be coming shortly, I blew a kiss and said softly: "I love you, mom. I miss you."
The bus came within seconds, literally, and I thought how interesting; how fortuitous of my teenage self to say back then: "even in death, you'll be living" (especially not having the Gospel in my life then) because it is so true. To this day, 17 years after her passing, mom lives. Within me.
And because of that, mom will never be a mere handful of dust...
I so deeply wish that those dearest to me could have known mom, but that's an opportunity the next life will bring, I hope... Until then, I like to think mom helps bless not only my life, but theirs as well. After all, that would be so in sync with what she did so often when she was alive on Earth.
I remember this day, 17 years ago, very clearly - so clearly as if it were a running film feed playing automatically on the television displayed in the patient waiting room of the local hospital. Alas, it isn't merely some video; rather, it is real. The reality is that 17 years ago today, momma went from a radiant, vibrant, intelligent, vessel of abundant goodness to a mere handful of dust.
Her friends and coworkers, even some individuals with whom I've been in contact years later who have heard the story, have inquired as to why momma chose to be cremated rather than buried. Well, my first response has always been: Because that's what she requested! This is then usually followed up with another question: "Why didn't she have a funeral or an obituary?" Again, because mom specifically asked that no fuss be made when she passed away; it's what she requested.
And so I honor[ed] it.
In the years since then, I have done (and continue to do) what's within my capability to pay tribute to mom life, and focus more on the fact she lived. After all, that's what she would have wanted. She was such a simple, humble soul, that having any sort of pomp and circumstance dwelling on her passing would not be her "style", so to speak. I have had moments when the thought of having a gravestone close by to visit may be nice, so I can visit and contemplate and try to "channel" her energy, so to speak, with regard to particularly arduous situations/experiences.
And that's when I realize being close to momma is not necessarily about proximity (though, it would certainly be wonderful to have that), nor do I need a grave marker to visit to feel closer to her...
What I love about the Gospel (and what attracted me to investigate in the first place) is the concept of Eternal Life. Many religions purport the concept - or at least part of the concept - that death is merely a stage along the way, and that our souls continue to exist beyond the grave. Yet, the Gospel tenets teach that our soul and body are not mutually exclusive. We, beyond the veil, shall have our soul (spirit) be one with our body again in the eternities. And, it won't simply be a body, but a perfected body.
So, while momma's cancer-ravaged body has since been reduced to a velvety gray handful of dust that slipped through my fingers, onto and around the smallest pine tree growing up through the snow-capped mountains of Green Valley Falls, on January 17, 1995.... her unceasingly influential and inspiring spirit will have a healthy, perfect body again on that Triumphant Day.
And knowing this makes me vastly more appreciative for a body that is now, unlike last January, is healthier. And that my spirit is a bit better than it was last January, too. And that, for the most part, the two are working together as a team. Which is a blessing.
Alas, I digress.
Back to the "handful of dust" reference.
So, when my graveyard shift ended at 9:13 a.m. this morning (ironically, the time I was born), I remembered that there's a tree I planted back in April 2003 (April is mom's birth month) in a neighboring park as part of a local cancer awareness endeavor. I walked the mile from my place of work to this park to find that, indeed, my tree was still there - so much taller than it was when it was originally planted as a fledgling nearly nine years prior. And it still has the original accompanied plaque that bears mommy's (and others') name. The tree was - and is - strong, sturdy, and still standing...
The bus came within seconds, literally, and I thought how interesting; how fortuitous of my teenage self to say back then: "even in death, you'll be living" (especially not having the Gospel in my life then) because it is so true. To this day, 17 years after her passing, mom lives. Within me.
And because of that, mom will never be a mere handful of dust...
I so deeply wish that those dearest to me could have known mom, but that's an opportunity the next life will bring, I hope... Until then, I like to think mom helps bless not only my life, but theirs as well. After all, that would be so in sync with what she did so often when she was alive on Earth.
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| the way the sunlight is shining through the trees, in this picture I took two years ago, seems fitting for this post |
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