The sun was shining brightly on the October day in Iowa...the day I took my mother home.
So much had led to this morning. Saying goodbye, with tears pouring down my cheeks at the airport in Okinawa, while the two-year-old called over and over, "Good-bye Grandma" was a moment I will never forget. Leaving my daughter and her family of seven too early was painful. Rerouting my itinerary to make it back home to avoid the typhoon and sitting in an airport in Seoul made the trip home almost surreal. Saying hello to the daughters who had been by my mother's side during her last days and at the moment of death was sweetness and tragedy mixed together. Their strength in my absence is a gift I will hold in my heart forever. Settling into home with my dear Hubby after a three week absence was comforting and safe as the jet lag hung mysteriously over me and funeral plans were being made. Oh the emotions as I arrived home to begin my mother's homecoming!
Days later family surrounded us for a short time. They arrived from near and far. Friends came and shared their fond memories and condolences. Everyone was here and then they were gone. The love, the togetherness, the tears, the laughter, the remembering, the stories, the sorting, the visitation and the funeral...it was a blur. It was all good. It was blessed. Suddenly it was over. Mother was honored but she was not yet home.
Twenty-five years ago I had not the strength to go to Iowa for my father's burial. I thought I didn't have the strength to go and so I did not go. I have always regretted that moment of weakness, that moment I thought I could not do one more act of public grieving.
This time I was the only one to accomplish the task. I accepted that. Hubby and I moved forward with the plan. I would take my mother home.
A bus ride, and airplane trip and a rental car helped us accomplish the mission. We arrived at my hometown of Council Bluffs, Iowa. We drove around looking for places I remembered...my house on Bluff street, my elementary school, Bloomer School, my grandparents home on Locust Lodge, the church, St Paul's Lutheran, where my parents were married. The places I remembered were precious to me on this October day.
The next morning Hubby and I arrived at the cemetery. The hill to my parent's gravesite was as I remembered. The roses in my arms felt precious as I had chosen four roses for each of our parents. For my dad there were three red roses and one pink rose. For my mother there were three white roses and one pink rose. Yes, our parents had produced one dear pink girl and three handsome, precious sons.
The funeral director from Illinois was present. He had driven from Illinois to western Iowa with our mother's remains. Also present was the pastor from the church where our parents were married in Council Bluffs. All was in order as I gazed at the hillside Hubby and I had to traverse.
As if heaven opened to me, all of a sudden, there was family arriving. My cousin, who I had never met, had arrived to help me through this moment. She brought her husband and told me that her brother would also soon be arriving. There, in the midst of emptiness, she and her family arrived as if a multitude of angels had appeared.
The depth of the cold morning hit me as we sat down for the committal service. I was shivering as the pastor began. I reached for my newfound cousin's hand. I thought I couldn't do this thing. But I knew I was not alone. My father's family was there with me. I could do this thing...this bringing my mother home.
I look back now to this moment in Iowa. It was blessed indeed! Hubby and I were there along with the family that were meant to be with us. My mother, along with my father were with their maker. They were surrounding us with heaven that October day. Their remains, all that we could claim, were on that gentle sloping hill in a cemetery in Iowa, but their souls were together and far beyond what we could even hope or imagine.
The sun was shining brightly on the October day in Iowa...the day I took my mother home.
