(The following post is
an extra post for this week. If you want to read “the rest of my story”
please see Monday’s entry, April 15, the post just prior to this one.)
With
trepidation Chris acquiesced to my request to commemorate the 20th
anniversary of Victoria’s death by spending the day together, reminiscing and
praying. When I told him I thought we should finally purchase a nice container
in which to store her ashes, his eyes widened. (I wasn’t sure why that would
bother him, since he didn’t elaborate, but I would learn later what he feared
most that I’d request.) But we both agreed that we didn’t want to open the
little white box to actually transfer her ashes to another container.
From the
first gentle suggestions, I could tell my desires caused him distress, and he
voiced several reasons as to why he might not have time to take all day
Saturday to do something like that. I assured him it didn’t have to take long;
I just wanted some time together to reflect and talk—something we’d never
really done. I think the talking and reflecting is what worried him.
On Sunday
night, April 7, Chris asked to see what I had in mind for containers.
Originally he had said he didn’t want to open the little white box containing
her ashes, but after looking at other options, he turned up his nose and said,
“What else did you find?” That was when I showed him the little white marble
urns for babies and small children I’d located on line. “Wow, I like that one!”
he said, pointing to the picture of the white marble urn.
I turned to
look at him. “But we’d have to actually transfer the ashes into that one,” I
said softly.
He didn’t
hesitate. “Okay. I want to get that one.” So, the little white marble urn it
was. After deciding together upon the engraving, I ordered it. It arrived
Thursday.
On Friday
he asked me what I wanted to do on Saturday. “Just go somewhere; just the two
of us. Alone.” I said without looking up from what I was doing.
“Do you
want to drive up to Mt. Lemmon?” he wondered. That sounded perfect. (For those
of you unfamiliar with Tucson, Arizona, Mt. Lemmon sits in the Santa Catalina
mountain range that borders Tucson on the north side of the city. Its elevation
is 9,157 feet, and the abundant pine trees and cool mountain air provide a
welcome respite from the searing desert floor heat. It’s only a 50-minute drive
from our house and a place to which we love to escape, although we don’t get up
there as often as we’d like.)
Then I
reminded him of a memorial service we were attending Saturday morning for a
dear friend. I secretly harbored concern about how it might affect our day, or,
more correctly, my emotions, but we couldn’t miss Al’s
service. He’d been such a tremendous mentor to my husband and sons. His
daughters and grandchildren, and their families, are precious friends. How
could we miss it?
So, on
Saturday morning we started our day by saying goodbye to Al. I wasn’t prepared
for how his service would prime my heart for our own private memorial for
Victoria—how it would refocus my recently cluttered and burdened mind and heart
and remind me of the most important things in life: love of God and family. Al
was the perfect model of both. Following the ceremony and visiting with old
friends we hadn’t seen for years, we left edified, joyous and expectant.
On the way
home we stopped at the store to pick up the white roses I’d selected to display
on our church’s altar Sunday morning. After putting the roses in water and
making a quick clothing change, we headed up the mountain.
Though
colder than expected—with scrappy patches of snow still lingering stubbornly on
the mountainside—the glorious weather and crisp air energized our senses and
calmed our hearts. Close to the summit we found a perfect spot on a hill
overlooking part of the valley. There we talked and shared our hearts. Then
Chris asked me the question that had been weighing heavily on his heart.
“What did
you plan to do with her, with the urn? Because I’m not ready to just put her in
the ground somewhere.”
“Oh, I
didn’t plan to put her anywhere. I just wanted to have her ashes in a special
place, a nice container, in a prominent place in our home, like she deserves.
Not some sterile white box stuck high up on a bookshelf behind a picture.”
Chris
exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. “Good, because I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready
to leave her somewhere.”
“You still
feel like you need to protect her, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he
smiled and nodded, relief softening his features because his deepest fears
wouldn’t become reality.
“I mean, I
like Tucson, but I don’t want to live here forever. And I wouldn’t want to
leave her here when we move. And I don’t want to leave her someplace in California
either. Actually, I’m thinking more like Hawaii. Maybe. But why can’t you just put her in the pine box with me when
I go?” He smiled crookedly and let a tiny, nervous laugh escape.
“You’re a protective
father who wants to be forever with his baby girl.” I smiled.
“Yeah, I
am.” He smiled again and nodded his head as though pleased to know I fully understood
his heart and wishes.
Chris got
up and walked around the table. We sat together, embraced, the warmth of our
bodies giving each other comfort and strength in the cold wind. We prayed,
thanking God for our blessings, our boys, and the strength and faith God
supplanted in us through Victoria’s death, for keeping us bound so closely
together. We thanked God for the past; we prayed for the future.
Then Chris
thanked God for the things He gives us and
for the things He takes away.
My love for
Chris surged anew through my heart when he thanked God that when our youngest
son, Cory, graduates from high school next month, the two of us would embark on
a new season in our lives, where we’d come full circle and be together—just the
two of us—romancing one another again. His voice exuded excitement and
gratefulness as he spoke. His tender touch and strong, encircling embrace
infused my heart and soul with joy and hope. In his firm, loving embrace, I
felt as if we could confront anything the world threw at us; we’d already
survived the worst tragedy that can befall parents.
Then Chris
whispered in my ear, “Thank you. This was a good idea. I feel much better.”
We returned
to the car and drove to the tiny mountaintop town. There we dined on pizza and
hot chocolate in a log cabin restaurant. When we got back down the mountain and
home, we opened the sterile, white box, finally read the official papers
enclosed in an envelope taped to the top, and transferred the small package of
Victoria’s remains to the white marble urn bearing her name.
“Where do
you want to put it?” Chris asked.
“Next to
our wedding picture on the entertainment center.”
“I think
that’s a good spot,” he nodded.
We sat on
the couch together, Victoria’s memory box opened on Chris’s lap. He looked at
the marble urn in its new spot. “I like it. It looks really nice right there.”
He looked tired, but content.
Then we
spent the next hour re-reading the cards, letters and notes sent to us by
friends and family. The exercise brought pleasant memories and stories of past
friends and co-workers. We laughed. We looked at the prints of Victoria’s tiny
footprints and the blurry Polaroid pictures of her. We sighed. “Boy, those feet
are tiny aren’t they?” Chris said, shaking his head. He finally picked up and
leafed through the grieving booklets I’d perused and he’d avoided. “It’s nice
that that doctor and nurse wrote that little book for people,” he commented.
For
something like the sixth time, he said, “I really do feel a lot better. This
was good.” Then he added, “Are you happy?”
“Yes,” I
smiled. “Thank you. I finally feel that we’ve said goodbye, together, and that
we’re more healed than we were; that Victoria is no longer a child of ours that
we’d rather not think about; that we’re afraid to talk about. That we’ve
relegated to a dark, quiet place in another room, like she never existed. Thank
you.”
As C. S.
Lewis said, grief does feel like fear. In that moment, the fear—of talking
about her, of thinking about her, of sneaking the box off the shelf and
loathing its sorry, cheap appearance—evaporated. The 20-year burden was lifted,
and I felt lighter. It really felt as if Victoria were finally home, and
we—Chris and I, and the boys—were whole.
“I want to
get all of these cards, pictures and notes out of this box and put them in a nice
memory album,” I said. Chris concurred.
“Yes, you
need to do that, so we can look at them.” I turned away and smiled, and
whispered a silent prayer of thanks to God.
The
following morning Chris and I drove the two-dozen white roses to our church to
display on the altar for the two services. During the second service, which we
attended, our pastor mentioned them and their meaning just before giving his
sermon. My mother cried when he said that, and when I gave her a dozen matching
white roses. We embraced as she shed her emotions. It was good. All good. Maybe
the healing went further than I had expected it to.
Several
people approached us after the service. “We didn’t know you had a daughter,”
some of them said. “Yes,” we do. We
really do, I thought. Then one woman I’ve never met approached me as I
gathered the roses up to take home. She looked up at me, gave me a bright
smile, and carefully selected her words. “You know, I don’t know the person who
those flowers were for, but…I have to tell you. They really helped me this
morning. They reminded me that what I have going on in my life, what I’m
worrying about, really isn’t such a big deal. Thank you.”
Now I sit
on the couch, see Victoria’s resting place on my shelf, and I smile.
You really are home, and a part of us now,
little one, and I am so very grateful for you.
_______________________________________
Until next week!
Blessings,
Andrea
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