Hellos, Goodbyes and Holding My Father in My Hands

We gathered in my hometown and birthplace this past weekend for my father's second memorial service. My father was born in the same city I was, but had lived for many years (and then finally died) in Wisconsin. It was another somber journey thinking of my father again. Missing him again. Realizing that I may not have actually finished grieving him, but I've two toddlers who don't exactly allow me much slow down time. I cried and grieved in the spaces I could find during the day, but life had to go on. And it still does.

My father's funeral in Wisconsin was a lovely service on an absolutely gorgeous autumn day. We could not have asked for finer weather. By contrast, weather for the memorial service this past weekend was cold, rainy and dreary, and as we were leaving the cemetery it started sleeting. It was just nasty, and we'd lost our umbrella, so we were getting wet, I had heels on and we were trying to carry the the boys. Not too much fun, and the weather reflected how I felt on the inside. I wasn't ready (again) to say goodbye to my father.

The memorial service was even more lovely than the funeral in Wisconsin, though. My father's colorful past was peppered with the fathering of seven children from seven different women. Not one of us has the same mother. Many of our mothers never wanted us to know that the man even existed. I found out the truth from family members when I was a senior in high school. Another sibling learned the truth in her late 30s. Still another sibling didn't find out the truth till she was 40. Those of us who did learn the truth of who our biological father was never learned the truth from our mothers --- always someone else. My father was married to some of our mothers, but not to all of our mothers. Two of my siblings are biracial. My oldest brother is mentally retarded. I have a sister who has the same name as I do. We are a motley crew.

As my father grew older, more mature and sober-minded, he began to see how damaging his past really was. He thought more reflectively about his choices. He began to take responsibility for his failures. He now hoped to know his children and to have them be a part of his life. He'd hoped they would want to be a part of one another's lives, too.

My father came into my life 20 years ago, so I was around to see some of his reunions with other siblings. Some didn't even know he existed. I waited patiently on the sidelines while my father rehearsed "firsts": what would he say to the daughter that didn't know he existed? How could he get in touch with a son with whom he had an "on/off again" relationship? How would he deal with the mothers of children in whose mouth he'd left a bitter taste so very many years ago?

He worked and worked and worked through his issues, finally making contact with all of his children. I'd had a brother and sister whom I hadn't even met yet. Some of the siblings had met my oldest sister, but not all of the siblings. Few of the siblings had met my brother, the mentally retarded one, who is actually the oldest.

In the past there were celebratory moments when many of my father's children would hook up and head out to Wisconsin to see him and my step mom. We made some happy memories, too, clanging around in the kitchen, taking orders on who wanted their eggs this way and who wanted them that. Making jokes, laughing --- having a good time together, as my father sat and watched with satisfaction. My father loved his children so very much. He loved to have as many of them around as he possibly could. None of us grew up together. We sometimes talk about what it might have been like had we grown up together. Would we have all gotten along this well? Probably not! There were still siblings we hadn't even met yet! It was my father's dream to get all seven children under one roof at the same time. That didn't even happen at the funeral. Our oldest brother and oldest sister weren't able to make it. My father's dream to have all of his sons and daughters together under one roof still hung thick in the autumn air, yet unfulfilled.

We gathered on last Friday at an area hotel. We agreed we would all stay in the same hotel so that we could spend as much time together as possible. The memorial service was to be on Saturday morning. Some arrived at the hotel early on Friday evening. Others of us arrived very late on Friday, and only first saw one another on Saturday morning at breakfast. We were still trying to nail down the particulars on my brother, Carl. Where would he be? At what time? Would he meet us at the chapel? Word was that the oldest sister and brother (whom many of us had not met) would attend the service. It felt a little like we were all holding our breath.

I met my oldest sister on Saturday morning, after breakfast, when she and her sons arrived at the hotel. We'd spoken on the phone a few times in recent years, but had never actually met. I ran up to her saying, "Hi, sister!" and we embraced. I met my nephews for the first time. The oldest sis was introduced and there were hugs all around. It was a happy moment. It was as if she'd always been there at family gatherings, so well did she fit in with us. It was a joy.

After meeting my sister, we had to hustle...everyone was to meet back downstairs in the lobby at 10:20 (ish) to head over to the cemetery chapel for the memorial service. I had to hustle double, because I was the only one with kids who couldn’t dress themselves yet!

Of course, we were late. But it wasn't my fault...we were waiting for some other sibling or the child of one of our siblings. We would have doubtless been late often had we all grown up together. And there probably wasn't a house big enough to hold us all anyway. Joke. Sort of.

We made it to the chapel a few minutes after 11:00 a.m. The service was supposed to start at 11:00, and we had to be out of there by noon. That was our cut off time.

When I saw him, I was taken aback. I'd never met my oldest brother, Gerald. Few of us had. Though my father had three sons, none of them looked as much like him as Gerald, the oldest. I was blown away, and it was a bit like looking at my father again, in the flesh. We embraced, and he was as thrilled to meet us as we were to meet him. It seemed that no one could stop smiling. We were looking around, meeting people, trying to figure out where our places were. We had to get the service started, as it was well after 11:00, but we were waiting for my brother, Carl, who had gone to get my sister's best friend, so she could be there for the service.

We all had our part in the service. The sister right above me in age facilitated the service. Hubby and I did Scripture readings, as did the sister right behind me in age and the brother right above me in age. The oldest sister sung the Lord's Prayer and led a beautiful prayer. The youngest sibling, and my father's namesake, gave some touching remarks, as did I and several other people who knew my father well. The service ended with all seven children lined up in the order of their ages, holding hands and singing the hymn "Let There Be Peace on Earth." It felt like I could feel my father's tears of joy. His dream was finally realized.

Afterwards, we went to the burial ground and a minister friend of my father gave a few remarks. I was choking up. It was cold. It was raining. And there, in a simple, small wooden box, my father's ashes rested. I kept looking at that small box. I kept looking at it, and decided that I must kiss it before I left. I couldn't believe that it had all come down to this: my father now gone, cremated (the cremation was done after the funeral; there was an open casket for the funeral, which I'd wanted very much), and now this was our last goodbye. Tears burned my eyes. My stepmother spoke, her voice breaking and the tears coming, but my youngest brother (the comedian) saved the moment with a humorous remark and we all laughed...even my step mom. I think she needed that laugh too.

The gathering broke up soon. Hubby took the boys back to the car, and I was standing there with my step mom and the sister right under me in age. I wanted to break out and cry; I wanted someone to grab me and hold me at that moment, so that I could get it all out. But no one did. We stood there talking momentarily. My stepmother said that the box of ashes was heavier than she thought. She would have imagined that ashes would be very light, but that wasn't the case, she said.

"Feel them," she said. "Lift the box."

I lifted the box, and she was right. It was heavier than it looked. And just like that --- just like that --- I held my father in my hands. And that was our last goodbye.

On Sunday morning, after breakfast, we all began to pack up and head back to our respective homes --- Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Maryland and Wisconsin. We'd make our way again, we promised. We would honor our father by building and maintaining relationships with one another --- that's what he always wanted and, in fact, many of us were already keeping in contact pretty well. We just have a couple of other siblings to add to the mix. It would require commitment on our part, but it was a commitment we were all willing to make. My stepmom thanked us again, through tears, for helping to make the memorial service a beautiful one. We all felt that my father would have been delighted.

Grace to you all, beloved...