On Hallowed Ground

   This weekend, four months after my brother’s death, I travelled to northeastern Ohio for the interment of ashes in my mother’s grave.  My mother’s grave is in a small town cemetery in her hometown, a beautiful piece of land in a verdant river valley.  Her ancestors and relatives’ graves are all over the cemetery…many generations of German Irish people whose stories we have heard for years fill these grassy plots…And now my mother’s ashes are crowned with my brother’s ashes.

   Any thought that this would be less emotionally-charged than the memorial service a few months earlier were quickly dispelled.  My nephew read the Committal of Ashes from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, which I had coincidentally printed out for our use.  My copies were put aside for people to take home as my nephew, a man of the cloth and wearing all black, read the service while our extended family stood in a circle around the new grave in the old.  Several people spoke a few words.  Quiet sobs accompanied the memories.  We prayed the Our Father, and the service was concluded.

   We took family photos.  Some of us went to other parts of the cemetery to find other relatives’ graves, and there were many – probably five generations worth, at least.  Ultimately we caravanned to an Amish restaurant out in the country where we had a huge long table on which an ample country meal appeared.  Then we said our goodbyes to those who lived south, in Central Ohio.  Those of us from other states – Florida, Arizona, New York, and Pennsylvania, as well as those who lived either in town or within driving distance – drove back to our hotels either for rest or for further visiting.

    I chose to go to the lake outside of town where all of us cousins used to vacation together every summer.  Two cousins and I headed out to the lake with our swimming suits, looking forward to a swim on a beautiful summer day.

   As we drove through the lovely old town that cradled our mothers, I was aware that we were treading on hallowed ground.  Sure, there were plenty of stories that were anything but straight-laced, but the sense that we were driving through God’s country was undisputed.  Even if we did marvel at the fact that it’s a miracle that our older brothers are still alive after driving the Ridge Road while under the influence at high speeds…the land is still beautiful.  The valleys are still green (my mother used to love to gaze out over valleys and murmur, “How green was my valley!”), the farms are still operating, and very little has changed.

   Then, the lake.  So blue, so calm, so inviting…we drove into the leafy green paradise that sheltered our aunts, uncles, grandparents, and now some of our children and their children…small cottages and some larger homes are nestled in the forested hillside that leads down to the lake where boat slips and a small private beach beckon.  The memories that this residential woodland holds for us are endless.  We walked these roads when we were toddlers, with our parents and their parents.  Now we’re the grandparents, and the little ones at the beach are my second cousins.

   We stepped into the cool, sweet waters of the lake, and sank into the silky softness that has its own distinctive perfume.  Again, the hilarity of the past shenanigans of our siblings – the hiding of beer under the dock, the times we rocked the raft so hard it flipped over – the many family reunions – echoed in our ears and hearts like the soundtrack to a very old film.  We’ve lost two cousins, all of the aunts and uncles, and certainly our grandparents.  But we’re still here – for now.

   Then, a member of the next generation offered us a ride on the family boat.  Oh, yes – this would complete my total joy at being here again.  We threw some clothes over our wet swimsuits, and climbed aboard the pontoon boat.  Off onto the larger lake we went – past forests, houses, cottages, docks, and eventually the more remote valley and beach where we rented cottages fifty or sixty years ago.  We pulled into the cove where my father kept our little wooden rowboat, where we all fished, where my older cousins swam, and yes, where they stashed their beer for late-night rendezvous. As we pulled out onto the larger lake once more to head back toward the glens from which we had come, I received a text that yet another relative - my husband's aunt, the last of his mother's generation, had just died up in Canada.  Another soul had launched from Earth to Heaven, and coincidentally, she had been a sailor.  Perhaps it was the day, or the way the wind blew, or the incredible shade of blue of both water and sky...All of the memories coalesced into that boat ride on that gloriously beautiful summer afternoon.  My brother had been laid to rest, it is true, but now he is part of the great heavenly host of relatives whom I imagine are still out there enjoying the lake, the cottages, the children, the memories.  This is hallowed ground, and holy water.

   From dust we come, and to dust we shall return.  It is true.  And perhaps our tears become the raindrops that fill the lake, and our laughter becomes the wind rustling in the trees along those beautiful wooded lanes.

   There is loss in death, without question. But as we grow older, and as more of us pass on to the next world, the boundaries begin to waver and fade, and our beloved family homeland becomes a thin place, as the Irish say.  A place where one can walk between worlds.