23 Open Sky

Day 23 - February 11

Steven and I drive to the next town for our morning meeting with the funeral director. We remember a few things from our experience when mother died. I pack a suit, tie, shirt and accessories in the car along with framed photographs and two large collages.

Yet this is nothing like the time mother died. This time father isn’t here. He isn’t the one making the decisions, he isn’t the one in charge. So who is left? Us? The kids? This is our first taste of life with no umbrella. The only thing between us and heaven is open sky.

We proceed cautiously. If one doesn’t feel strongly about an issue, a quick pass is made to the other. Sometimes, one does feel strongly and the other generously gives in. A few times, we both feel strongly and have different opinions. How carefully we tred, not wanting to offend, not wanting to cross the invisible line that would divide us. Through disagreements, we keep our bond of two.

We decide on timing and schedules, write a bio, purchase flowers, call friends and construct a letter. Father kept every card and letter he ever received, lined up in boxes, each card and letter returned to its original envelope. We create a mailing list for our letter by sorting through hundreds of his envelopes, back through the years, choosing to stop at 2003.

I remember the week before mother’s funeral as one long feud for us. Steven and I didn’t agree on anything about the arrangements. Though we wouldn’t have said it at the time, we acted like children. Now we put on our best adult faces.

Over early breakfast in the Lima Family Diner, we discuss the funeral with father’s pastor, Jerry. As a pastor himself, Steven has probably officiated more than two hundred funerals. This time he is the “family” he always tried diligently to provide for in those many services. I hope father's service will inspire my children. They know and love their grandpa, but I want them to hear his story in a new and complete way. Needs, hopes, and desires tumble onto Jerry’s notepad.

As Steven and I work on the mailing list, we receive a call. Aunt Anne and Uncle Bob have arrived from St. Louis. They traveled as soon as their arrangements were made, hoping to see him. We welcome them at father’s, offering tea and a look at father’s hospital bed and view from his last day.

Anne, the last survivor of father’s brothers and sisters, is two years older than father. She looks like father, smiles like father, and shares his loving spirit. We learn from Uncle Bob she wanders in the night eating and praying like father and she finds it very difficult to admit her dietary cheating, exactly like father.

We feel like “the kids” again for a few minutes.

She tells us, “I thought I would be the next one to go. I miss him already. I prayed for him all the time. Oh, I prayed for him…I really wanted to see my little brother, but I didn’t make it in time.”

Aren’t we all, still the kids?