Dust to Dust: A Moment with Bill Reflection

I attended a funeral the other day.

Lois Ackley was buried and I was there.

I did not know Lois.

Never met her.

Knew nothing about her.

I know, strange, right?

I was heading home from Fred Meyers, and my route took me by the cemetery. I noticed a funeral occurring, and for whatever reason, I decided I should be there.

I’m glad I was.

It was a showery day with wind gusts, and umbrellas were in attendance. Maybe fifty people braved the January winds and stood on a tiny knoll. Most were wearing black, of course, and all were somber in appearance.

There was a minister there, reading from the good book, and the mourners listened attentively. Dust to dust, he said, a reminder we all need but rarely desire to hear.

I surmised that those closest to the casket were family, tradition being what it is, so there I turned my attention. There were three couples, all middle-aged, and six children in that front row. Could they have been siblings with spouses and Lois’s grandchildren? If so, Lois had done well. These were gentle faces I saw, caring faces, stricken with grief, for sure, but there was a kindness about them. They all stood hand-in-hand, a human wall of sadness, obstructing the outside world and containing their family boundaries on this day of reflection and goodbyes.

The children ranged in age from approximately five to eighteen. They were dimpled and blond, red-eyed and deflated. The youngest were sad, I’m sure, because their parents were sad, and they had yet to comprehend the true nature of that event. The older children were genuinely sad, their grandmother, a fixture in their lives, all their lives, suddenly was no more.

Their parents gave them all pats on the back, and from time to time they whispered reassuring words in their ears, and the children hugged their parents and gave them reassuring looks of love, for love never dies even when a human vessel does.

From the family the wave of grief moved outwards. The second line of defense, if you will, was an eclectic group of all ages, from toddlers to geriatrics, from teens to middle-aged. Some wore suits of fine craftsmanship. Some wore threadbare. There was a smattering of clothing color in this group, a sprinkling of red here, a light blue there, but the predominant color was black.

Skin colors were mixed with whites and blacks, yellows and browns, telling me that Lois reached across the human spectrum, that she was an inclusive traveler who bridged cultural gaps effortlessly.

This group whispered often, bowed their heads in genuine respect, and gave their utmost attention to the words spoken and the feelings felt. There was no silliness among them, no inadvertent glances at wristwatches wondering when this sad event would end.

I glanced at the parking lot and saw F150s, Honda Odysseys, Lexus sedans and Buick LeBarons. I saw Mustangs and Civics, Rams and a Prius, and under one tree sat two bicycles. It was a nice mixture of foreign and domestic, rich and poor, and again it spoke volumes about Lois as she was slowly lowered into the Earth from which she ultimately came.

The final words were said, and then the group moved forward. They were each handed a rose, and in turn they each dropped that rose into the grave, bowed their heads once again, whispered words of goodbye, and then made room for the next.

When the last rose was deposited upon the casket, the group moved to the parking lot and began forming a line. When the procession was properly formed, a young girl, certainly no older than eight, walked to the head of the line and held aloft a handmade sign. On that sign were the words “We Love You, Lois.” The young girl began walking, and the adults and other children follower her, and they all walked around the cemetery, smiling and laughing, sharing in the memory of Lois. There were still tears, for sure, but the tears were secondary to the looks of happiness I saw, happiness born from knowing Lois, sharing parts of their lives with Lois, and being touched by Lois.

Finally the celebration of love ended, and the group dispersed. The Fords and Hondas, bicycles and SUVs, all slowly left the final resting place and began the business, once again, of living.

I did the same!

We touch so many lives during our journey from womb to grave.

I was profoundly touched by the burial of Lois. I left feeling her loss even though I did not know her. This was a woman who was obviously loved. This was a woman who impacted others with her love. The tax records will show one less tally, an insignificant subtraction of one while at the same time hundreds of thousands are born to take the place of Lois. In a world of seven-point-two billion, one left us, and it would be so easy to say she was insignificant when compared to the overwhelming numbers that surround us.

But Lois was significant, as are we all.

We touch so many lives during our journey from womb to grave.

You may not even realize it. I know there have been dark days when I was convinced that I could pass on and nary a ripple would be felt by my passing, but the truth is that I have touched thousands, as have you. Seven-point-two billion people do not render my existence as insignificant, but rather underscore the importance of us all.

We touch. We impact. We struggle, we celebrate, we stumble, fall and rise again.

And most importantly, we love.

Rest in peace, Lois Ackley!

2015 William D. Holland (aka billybuc)