I buried my father’s ashes last Friday on a sunny spring day in Spokane, Washington. I blessed his grave, a 2.5-foot deep hole in the dark, damp earth, with holy water from my church, Sts. Peter & Paul. Said prayers of the Trisagion.
Lord have mercy, we Orthodox Christians plead repeatedly. Glory to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, both now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen.
Dad was not Orthodox, but I am. And so, I prayed for him from my new tradition. Somehow, I know he appreciated it.
Heavenly king. Comforter. Spirit of truth. Everywhere present, filling all things. . . . . Save our souls, O Good One.
We mourners offered our words to Dad, each other. Memories were shared. Tears shed. Hugs given, and received. Farewells. The urn was placed in the ground, freshly turned earth packed over it, leaving a rich, dark brown mound interspersed with grass blades and pine needles.
Goodbye, Dad. But not goodbye to the grief.
Yesterday afternoon the Box arrived. It contained the few mementos, packets of photos, this and that saved from Dad’s nursing home room and shipped to me in Utah from Washington by UPS. I opened it, and with it, once more, opened the grave. Or so it seemed.
Having contemplated it once more, I will try again to close the grave with the soft soil of my heart. Not to forget, but to honor. Grief does not end, I’m learning.
It is, however, transformed. And transforming. Grief will take me where it will, and with prayer serving as my hand touching paradise, I will step ahead through the miles left in my own life.
I will do so with, I pray always, more and more love, and less sadness.
Heavenly king. Comforter. Spirit of truth. Everywhere present, filling all things. . . . . Save our souls, O Good One.
We mourners offered our words to Dad, each other. Memories were shared. Tears shed. Hugs given, and received. Farewells. The urn was placed in the ground, freshly turned earth packed over it, leaving a rich, dark brown mound interspersed with grass blades and pine needles.
Goodbye, Dad. But not goodbye to the grief.
Yesterday afternoon the Box arrived. It contained the few mementos, packets of photos, this and that saved from Dad’s nursing home room and shipped to me in Utah from Washington by UPS. I opened it, and with it, once more, opened the grave. Or so it seemed.
Having contemplated it once more, I will try again to close the grave with the soft soil of my heart. Not to forget, but to honor. Grief does not end, I’m learning.
It is, however, transformed. And transforming. Grief will take me where it will, and with prayer serving as my hand touching paradise, I will step ahead through the miles left in my own life.
I will do so with, I pray always, more and more love, and less sadness.
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