Tender Mercies

Well, Ireland cradles another son in her soggy arms.

I took Maury's remains home for burial this week--an event I'd been dreading that ended up being far better than okay. In fact, it was achingly beautiful, every second playing out as my husband would have wanted.

Family, friends, and even strangers made the trip bearable. I had no want of rides, hugs, shelter, and kindness. Even TSA showed compassion, especially the cross-wearing man who had the miserable task of swabbing Maury's ashes while I wept and fought to stay conscious. Ordinarily, those guys slam your stuff around without caring how you get it all back into the suitcase. This guy carried my disheveled suitcase to a private table like fine china, saying, "I got you. I got you." Mercy shows up in the strangest places and at all the right times.

My husband was a builder of many things, but the finest thing he ever built was his family. His children--and their extended families--are nothing short of amazing, a legacy made of blood and bone and held together by love. They are, quite frankly, just like him, and as such, easy to adore. You can hear him in the way they laugh, see him peering out of their twinkling eyes, and feel him in the way they show up for each other. They carry him forward not just in name, but in spirit, and in this way, he still lives.

Burial Day arrived as they usually do in Ireland, with sheets of rain slinging against the windows, as if Ireland is crying, too. As I prepared for the event--putting on makeup, straightening my hair, and donning the dress so carefully selected, it felt eerily similar to our wedding day. One minute, you're getting dolled up to marry the man of your dreams, and the next, you're dressing for his funeral. I couldn't get that thought out of my head. Still can't. The pictures prove it. I thought I looked nice. But every photo looks like this: sorrow, dressed in black.

Ready for a BIG DATE of the Worst Kind

We delivered the ashes and that gorgeous urn to the undertaker on Wednesday morning, and before long, we were sitting in our cars knowing we were about to get drenched, not just by rain, but by grief itself.

Then something miraculous happened. With the first blast of the bagpipes, the rain stopped, as if nature yielded to the sacredness of his presence, still felt in the music, the mist, the rolling hills, and ancient stones around us. I carried the urn, cross forward, in a processional that encircled the grave. He was laid to rest with his parents, and the priest conducted a short service, then sprinkled him with holy water and a handful of dirt. Each of us placed a white rose on his urn, and I read We Give Back Those You Gave Us, written by William Penn. The short service was exactly what this humble man would have wanted, and precisely what we needed.

As the many people streamed by to offer condolences, I found peace and even laughter. The heaviness of the past three months lifted a bit, and I heard my husband whisper gratitude and praise from some distant place.

We spent the rest of the day together as a family, laughing, eating, crying, drinking. Drinking some more. (Listen, it's Ireland, folks.) I had transferred his family videos to mp4s, so we watched a few of those, too. The youngest generation played and built "forts" together. I have a feeling even they will remember that day forever. I simply cannot think of anything my husband would have enjoyed more than seeing us all together, bound by our love for him.

I was blessed by an upgrade to first class on the way home, which meant top notch meals and a seat that fully reclined. A snafu with UBER in Philly left me stranded with 30% battery power in my phone. I could be very annoyed about that, but it actually served a quiet mercy, as by the time I got home, I was too tired to even think about entering a house where not even his ashes remain.

When I awoke this morning, the house was still, but not empty. I saw that the trip I dreaded became a pilgrimage of love, a journey to the truth--that even though the body dies, love lives on forever. I thank God I know where my beloved is and how to join him there.

“In my Father’s house are many rooms… I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” John 14:2-3