Cemetery

When I stood to walk to the pulpit to give my funeral remarks, Spencer stood and followed me.  And so my mom stood and followed him, and held him on the stand for the duration of my talk ("That's what grandmothers do," President Reneer later commented). 
After speaking, I sat down by them and pulled Spencer from Mom's lap to my own.  I snuggled him while the tears I'd struggled to keep at bay during my talk silently and steadily streamed down my face.  After a few moments, Spencer took my tissue and reached up to wipe my cheeks.  "I will dry you,"  he whispered with a small, loving voice. 

I pray I will never forget the feeling of those little hands helping to sooth my overflowing tears.  (See him there, still holding the tissue?)

When the service ended (after remarks from our current and former bishops, both so beloved), we proceeded out of the chapel.  The solemn toll of the church bells brought more tears, but seemed a perfect tribute as we prepared to leave for the cemetery. 

Every one of Wes's brothers and mine were there to carry the casket and it's beloved contents to the resting place we had picked out. 



The afternoon sun was scorching.  But after Mike's beautiful dedicatory prayer, I wanted to stay. 

And watch. 

And participate. 

I can understand why lots of people opt out of this scene. 

 

But it was good for me somehow.  To witness it all.  To help my children turn that dark, real earth.  To  offer one last physical labor of love. 

My Sunday shoes are still stained with that sacred soil.

And we'll keep visiting that beautiful spot.  To remember that what feels overwhelmingly final,

is not.