Circle of Life

I don't think I've ever been to a funeral that made me feel full of life.

But let me tell you what happened this weekend.

On Saturday, the LTR and I drove to southeastern Ohio, to his family's farm there. I've long thought that farm, purchased by the family decades ago and the residence of the LTR's oldest brother, was his family's spiritual home.

It was my father-in-law's favorite place.

It is nestled in the soft foothills of the Appalachian mountains from which the LTR's family emerged. On the rolling land sits a small farmhouse overlooking two ponds the family created, surrounded by two sun-filled meadows.

The LTR's father had asked that his ashes be scattered there. Regular readers here know he died last fall.

The family added its own touches. We would, on a sunny April afternoon, close to what would have been his 80th birthday, plant a tree on the farm in his memory.

And so it was that we gathered there last Saturday.

We gathered, after sharing a few drinks and happy talk and laughter, on a rise on the meadow opposite the farmhouse across the larger of the two ponds, to plant the tree. Each of us took turns, sons, a daughter, in-laws and wife, making a space to nurture the living memorial.

I've not planted many trees. I doubt that many, if any, have been planted with as much care and love as this one.

And soon it was time to spread the ashes. The oldest brother -- the family patriarch now -- said a few words. The LTR, true to his public relations self, had prepared a few words. He said:

I know that our Dad is looking down from Heaven and smiling. I know that
because he always loved this farm. Mostly because he saw it as a place
that brought the family together. So here we are today carrying out his
last wish. And we can't forget that his ashes are being scattered on the
place he loved so much by the people he loved so dearly.

I read a letter he had written to his parents while in the Army. The words of a young man concerned about his parents' worries were heard on those Ohio hills. Others family members movingly spoke. And then, one by one, we reached into a box and shoveled out and scattered around the base of the tree the ashes left from the flesh and blood of the man who had brought us all to this place.

I can't help but contrast this to the funerals of my grandparents. I loved my grandparents and my family did what we thought was best to honor their memories at their funerals -- the traditional way. But at each one someone would invariably say, gazing into the open coffin, "She looks good."

No, I thought. She looks dead. Actually, she looks like a figure from Madame Tussuad's gallery. Have you ever touched an embalmed body? There is nothing natural or human about it. And then you escort it to the cemetery to see it dropped in an expensive box into a lead lined vault for eternity. It's as if we're trying to preserve the moment of death -- to forestall the natural order of things as long as possible.

I much prefer the "ashes to ashes" approach.

What we did for my grandparents was expected. What we did for my father-in-law was beautiful. One entombed death in time. The other embraced the circle of life.

Years from now, long after we are gone, after the tree we planted is gone, his DNA, if not his spirit, will still be a part of that place.

In the meantime, every April, the month of his birth, a tree we planted for him, nurtured by him, will bloom.

What a tribute. And it moves us all.