A Place for All of Us

Love changes shape ... it doesn't disappear

More than forty years after our brother died, we stood together waiting for Ernie to come home.

It sounds strange to write those words. He had been dead since he was twenty-two.

I was 16 when we lost him.

Yet, when his ashes were placed into our hands, it felt less like receiving remains and more like finally welcoming a family member back into the circle. He was home. Ernie was home.

My brother and I had talked about bringing Ernie home. In the midst of making decisions about how we would take care of our mom after her death, it always led back to Ernie. Where he was. Where he had been - all alone for over forty years.

Our dad is scattered at our family cabin, exactly as he would choose. Amongst nature, wildlife and the cabin he built for generations to come. We know he’s happy overseeing everything there. Seeing all of us there.

Ernie was placed in a cremation plot in 1979, at the age of 22. By our parents, who were so distraught and heartbroken, made decisions they thought were right. Because someone in the funeral business told them so. And when you have lost your child, how can you even begin to know what’s right? Nothing is right in those moments.

Ernie’s ashes lay in a cremation plot at Valley View Memorial for over forty years. I never visited him there. My mom visited a few times early on. I don’t know if my dad ever did. He was alone. Separate from us.

I had never thought about it too much until our mom was dying. Knowing as a mom, she needed to be with her son. Or I needed her to be with him. As a mother with my own son. I needed this.

So on a September day, we stood with tears in our eyes, waiting for Ernie to be lifted out. There he was. In my heart, it was like seeing a brother come home after forty years. Of course, he isn’t alive, but in that moment it sure felt like it. We were bringing him home!

After forty years of carrying the heavy weight of Ernie’s grief, the feeling of things undone, of life simply not being “right”, our grief softened that day. As we placed him beside my mom’s ashes on the shelf, we softened. “Here you go mom, here he is.” “I know you’ve missed him so much”. We are all together now.

The dead may not know where their ashes rest. But the living do.

Many of us feel guilty about memorial choices, never feeling confident about the decisions we make. Were they the right ones?

We are encouraged to know what our dying would wish for, yet in the end, what we do with our loved ones after death is really for us. We are the ones who visit. The ones who remember. The ones trying to make sense of a loss.

My mom and brother still sit on the shelf right now. Yet soon, we’ll gather them up and take them to the cabin to be with our dad, and my dear friend’s son, Andy, as well. Our loved ones will be gathered there. Forever. And we will follow.

Here is where we feel closest to our dad, grandpa, and now great-grandpa. Where my kids and grandkids continually learn about their family before them. My granddaughter even walks through the cabin door, looks up at the picture of my dad and will say, “Hi, great-grandpa”. He lives loudly in our hearts there.

My kids spent summers at the cabin, basked in the love and guidance of my parents. I was a young mom, and they were tiny babes. Yet, my dad knew exactly what was building there, even if we didn’t see it at the time.

And so, here is where we all belong. Together. Family. Separated no more.

As a death educator and consultant, I’ve learned so much about death, dying, and grief. How to intentionally take steps to help you get through. How to soften your grief and sadness in ways that make sense for you.

I knew what else I needed to do.

I gathered up a wee bit of my mom and my brother’s ashes and sent them off to my dear friends Nicola and David of Touchwood Memorial Rings. Nicola has been talking to my dad regularly at the stone circle on their property. Nicola knows him. She never met him when he was alive - but she has met him through me. The stories I’ve told, the sadness I’ve felt, the love. She knows him - and my brother Ernie too.

So it only made sense to have them craft some keepsakes for us. I sent the ashes, and Nicola found my dad’s brand of tobacco. Export A. My dad’s ashes had all been scattered 15 years prior, so I needed something that represented him.

I wanted something for myself, but also for my brother and my kids. Not because I couldn’t let go, but because love seeks expression. I wanted to honour the fact that the people we love continue to shape our lives long after they are gone.

Nicola and David took so much time to listen, to learn and to truly understand the relationships we all had with my mom, dad, and brother. Their love was infused in every conversation, every step in creating these pieces. Their hearts and love are woven into everything they do.

And so a ring for me. Talismans for the others. Each infused with the ashes of my mom, my brother Ernie and tobacco for my dad. Each was from wood that represents the cabin, douglas fir, plus crabapple. The crabapple represents the tree that grew at the home my dad grew up in, where we played as kids, and where my brother lives today.

My ring was glittered with mother of pearl. On each piece, David inscribed, “Never Alone”.

When my ashes arrived at the meadow with Nicola and David, Nicola took them for a walk around the meadow, to the stone circle. She honoured and blessed them there. A quiet, deeply loving ceremony. Just Nicola, my mom, dad and Ernie, the chickadees and the song of the raven in the background. It was beautiful.

She was gracious enough to take photos and video for me. To make sure I could see and feel this ceremony. I truly did, and you probably will too. You can watch it here.

Of course, not everyone would choose memorial jewellery or a talisman, and that’s okay.

The point isn’t the ring or the talismans. The point is permission.

Permission to create rituals that are meaningful. Permission to remember differently. Permission to keep relationship alive.

We often speak of closure as though grief has a finish line. My experience is quite different.

The people I love have not disappeared from my life. The relationships have changed, but they continue.

The beauty is that we can imagine many possibilities. There is no right way. There is only meaningful way.

This was mine.

I gifted the talismans at Christmas. Inside each were traces of the people who came before them - my mom, their grandma; my dad, their grandpa, my brother, the uncle they never got to meet, or have a chance to know.

I gave each of them a letter, explaining how the talismans were made, what each element represented, and reminding them they are never alone. Our people are always with us.

I watched quietly as each of them read their letter, let the talisman roll around in their hands. Fingers gently rubbing and caressing, as they reflected, and truly felt the love we’ve all been so blessed with. There were some quiet tears. No words spoken. Just acknowledgment and honouring.

What I felt was continuity.

The people we love do not stay because we keep their ashes. They stay because they have become part of us. My ring and the talismans simply remind us of what was already true.

Love leaves a mark.

And sometimes, if we are fortunate, we get to carry that mark with us wherever we go.

We are never alone.

go gently,

Karen

In the months that have followed my mom’s death, I began noticing something else. How many women carry families, memories, caregiving, responsibilities, grief and other BIG life transitions, without ever stopping to ask what it is costing them.

That realization became the beginning of another conversation. Subscribe and stay tuned to learn more.

^{I am blessed to call Nicola and David Finch good friends. They do many different things on the Meadow, and no matter what they’re doing, it is always with deep heartfelt love for what they do, the people they serve, and the land they steward. Be sure to learn more about them at:}