Rising from the ashes.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. From there we came; hence we go.

We had long discussed that both of us wanted to be cremated, so that’s what I did. The bulk of Mike’s ashes are inurned in the Sunset Cemetery in the community where we’ve lived for over 40 years. But we did withhold a small amount in three “wands.”

Now to be clear, he was a practicing Catholic, and the church frowns on the scattering of ashes. It is considered disrespectful of the body which our church believes will be restored upon resurrection. Enough theology. On to the ashes.

In his green notebook, Mike had written his wishes, a description of where he wanted a few of his ashes placed. More than anything, those choices were indicative of areas that were important or special to him and as such, revelatory of the man who made those choices. So I reveal them:

GOLF: The golf course in the town where he grew up. Mike started playing the game when he was eight years old, following his father around the course. He learned the game, became quite good at it and played it on hundreds of courses. He loved the game though it caused him great frustration at times. I remember him telling me that he once buried his clubs because he was so disgusted with a round he’d just played. Needless to say, the “sticks” didn’t stay in the ground for long. And now they stand like sort of a sentinel in the basement storeroom. I just can’t bring myself to do anything with them yet. I was glad he played 18 holes with those clubs just a few weeks before he passed.

MINNESOTA CABIN: For most of our married life we made trips to a little rustic cabin on a small lake in the middle of that state. We saw the growth of our girls with pictures at the end of the dock. We spent quiet nights in the cabin when a summer rain kept us off the lake. It was family time like no other, and we loved it. About ten years ago we had the opportunity to buy that cabin which was nearly 100 years old. Ultimately we made the decision to build a new cabin on that site. So many memories there of love, life and, now loss, so a little bit of him truly does belong there.

THE FARM: Mike was a city boy who fell in love with a farm girl, and he came to love the farm and the land as much as I did. In some ways, even more. Maybe it was all that time sitting in a tractor running a baler that spewed out small round bales of prairie hay. Or driving the Sandhills, marveling at their beauty. He soaked up a lot of agriculture knowledge from my farmer father, which came in handy when he worked with farmers and ranchers as a community banker.

THE BANK: He spent over 40 years as a community banker, loaning money to farmers, small business owners and families. Offering financial advice to young and old, and just being a solid, reliable member of the town’s business community. One of the most gratifying things at Mike’s funeral was hearing comments from people who noted how Mike had “believed in them,” and had made it possible for them to succeed in their own businesses. One particular text message sent to him shortly before he passed was particularly meaningful: “Mike I hope you’re feeling better and getting better. I am so thankful we met and have had such caring banker. Your integrity is the best. It is what I value most in any relationship.”

A set of bank keys went into the urn and are buried with Mike’s ashes.

IRELAND: In his own words, from the green notebook….”and if there’s any left, take some to Ireland.” We made several trips to that lovely country and have many fond memories of the time we spent there. I have no immediate plans to go there, but some ashes will remain to be taken there. My hope is to take the whole family.

Oh, Mike, the places we can take you. But will I. Not as easy as one might think. A little of him went to sea with his brother’s and mother’s ashes. In that process, we followed the appropriate permits. Private property at the lake or the farm is our business, but still I’m wondering exactly how to do it. Mike loved fireworks and we always had plenty when we went to the lake. Maybe it’s best to just shoot off some fireworks when we gather there for what would have been his birthday in late July. Or put some in the ground with a tree we will plant there this summer.

One thing I have decided — I’m going to take my time. Just like the golf clubs, I’m not quite ready to separate myself from them. Yes, I appear to be living in the ashes of my loss. I’m pretty unhappy right now as I near the end of this year of thinking and writing about losing Mike and what he meant to me. This week we would have celebrated our 53rd wedding anniversary. Next month will mark a year since his passing and the month of his birthday.

While I seem to be feeling that weight of grief all over again, I also know that there will be a time when I emerge from it. So I’m thoughtful and ultimately maybe optimistic. There will be joy; I just don’t feel it quite yet. So as I thought about those places he wanted his ashes, I bask in pleasant memories. And the nice thing — I still can go to those places and remember the good times we spent there.

In some ancient Scandanavian cultures, there was a powerful grief custom. Anyone grieving a loss was asked simply to tend the fires in the middle of the longhouse for a year. Little was expected from the grieving person except to “live” with the ashes and the hope of emerging from the ashes renewed.

I will rise from the ashes, but for now I lovingly tend them.