Don't Go

A reflection in anticipation of burying mom's ashes

I'm really not one to dwell on the death of a loved one--or anyone, really. But I find myself processing my mother's December 15, 2024, passing slowly and carefully.

Why? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's because she was my mom. Perhaps because she was the last direct living link I have to my childhood and a post-WWII generation (I was born in the last years of the post-war baby boom). Perhaps I want to fully process what goes on in grief--particularly my own. Perhaps I am just not as ready to fully let go as I imagined.

With this on my mind, I wrote the following this past Saturday--one week before her interment at South Mound Cemetery in New Castle, Indiana. Mom and dad lived and met and courted and were married in New Castle. All my deceased relatives--both Sheffields and Hays--are buried at South Mound. Burying her ashes will be the last official act my sister Debbie and I will need to carry out to bring what American civility calls "closure."

But, I wonder, if closure will be the outcome. That's what I was pondering as I wrote this piece.

In a week, we will bury her ashes—
all that physically endures of mom.

Having held her hand as she breathed her last,
having hosted a celebration of her life with family and friends
(how buoyant and warm a gathering it was),
having distributed or disposed of her last possessions,
having settled her accounts, we will,
at last, place her remains in the ground.

That, they say, will mean closure.
That, they say, will conclude months of grieving.
That, they say, will put the final nail in the coffin.
That, they say, will wrap it all up.

I’ve already removed a piano-top tribute,
boxed up cherished photobooks,
reduced the number of framed photos;
already put away memorabilia in
plastic tubs and file folders (they’ll reside
in basement storage until occasionally called
upon by nostalgia or heartfelt memories).

We’ll dutifully do all that is required
and necessary to fulfill our responsibilities.
Civility and decency and respectability will
be served and satisfied and we
will, technically, be relieved and released.

We will walk from cemetery grounds that
are nourished by all our deceased loved ones;
drive back to our cities and homes and daily lives
somehow, in some way, turning the page
toward what we do not yet know.

All this seems good and proper—
our minds and hearts confirm it.
But our hearts feel, also, something lingering—
something not ready to be ended,
wrapped up, put away.

“Don’t go,” we used to lovingly say to
family and friends even as they were
walking out the door and down the sidewalk.
“Don’t go,” even as we knew they needed
to leave and we needed to move on.
“Don’t go,” now, even as we must bid
a final farewell to my mother’s good life.

She is gone and we let go.
She is gone, yet we hold on.
She is gone and we move, not on,
but haltingly forward with memories and
gratitude and all that
grace may offer.

‘The Way, the Truth and the Life’

Wendell Berry's 2012 poem speaks to today's cultural chaos

I came upon this gripping, insightful 2012 Sabbath poem of Wendell Berry a while back. With him, my heart aches at the ripping fabric and cultural insanity of twisted words, shallow values, hollow justifications, and indefensible violence.

Praise "family values,"

"a better future for our children,"

displacing meanwhile the familiar

membership to be a "labor force"

of homeless strangers. Praise

work and name it "jobs."

With "labor-saving technology"

replace workers at their work

and hold them in contempt

because they have no "jobs."

Praise "our country" and oppress

the land with poisons, gouges,

blastings, the violent labors and

pleasures of the unresting displaced,

skinning the earth alive.

This is the way, the truth, the life.

Welcome the refugees set free

from the "nowhere" of rural America,

from the "drudgery" of the household

and the "mind-numbing work"

of shops and farms, into

the anthills of "liberation,"

the endless vistas of "growth,"

of "progress," the "limitless adventure

of the human spirit" rising

through inward emptiness into

"outer space." Welcome

the displaced naturally "upwardly

mobile" to their "better world"

as they gather bright-lighted

in "multicultural" masses

in the packed streets. Catch

those who inevitably

fall from the light-swarm

in meshes of "safety nets," "benefits,"

"job training," the army,

the wars, mental hospitals,

jails, graves. Forget

vocation, memory, living

and dying at home. This

is the way, the truth, and the life.

Flourish your weapons of official

war where they are needed

for peace, bring death by chance

but needfully to small houses

where children play at war

or a wedding that is taking place

so that the bride and groom

will not be separately killed,

for you have an enemy

somewhere, who must be killed.

Therefore forgive the unofficial

entrepreneur who brings

your weapons to your

school, your office, your

neighborhood theater, bringing

death randomly but needfully,

for his enemies are his

as yours are yours. This is

the way, the truth, and the life.

- from This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems by Wendell Berry

Neighboring

Neighboring Includes Being There and Taking Part

It’s a privilege to engage directly as a resident urban neighbor with real neighbors in real time—on our block, on our streets, in our local coffeehouses, bars, eateries, shops, faith communities, schools and gathered meetings—and to take part in short and long-term problem solving and planning for a better quality of life for all.