For my leaning toward sentimentality.
While vacuuming this morning around a chair that used to be my great great aunt's, and thinking of the loss in our community, I had two thoughts. Why am I so sentimental about things? And why do I love LDS funerals? Funny how our brains work sometimes. So, I just let my thoughts go and kept vacuuming.
I find it gut wrenching to rid my life and house of objects that belonged to loved ones. Before this morning, I never questioned why. As my family has encouraged me to clean up, clean out, reduce, minimize, it feels like I am letting THEM go. Currently my husband wants to get rid of the big oak table he made me for Christmas one year, and the big hutch desk that I made the same year. I look at him like he's grown an extra head.
As the vacuum reached under the couch, there was my mother; standing right in the middle of it. It's funny how her tragic end so very long ago, still has silver threads all intertwined in my head and my heart and my life. And my belongings.
The lifetime hopes of a relationship with her were "wrenched" from me when I wasn't paying attention. Trinkets and personal items didn't mean that much to me before then. But somehow, a place within me mistakenly thought that if I held on to a thing that someone owned, somehow I was retaining a part of them. Just recognizing that helps me to know, that's not true. But in my mother's case, not having known her long, I can understand why I might think that. The clinging doesn't change the past.
It's not just objects though, I'm sentimental about a lot of things. Exchanged letters, family recipes, cookies, music from the past. The longing left over from the losing, seems to be all wrapped up in it. Happy memories help transcend the loss.
I'm realizing that the very few memories I have of her, are far more precious that what I own that was once hers. That applies whether it's my mother's belongings, or my grandparents, my aunt, or the hundred little memorable things my children have made or given me that I have squirreled away as boxes of treasure.
Putting my hope in temporal things as worthy as some of that may be, doesn't hold a candle to Who I can put my trust in. Cue the love of funerals. I know it's weird! Maybe not so weird if you've ever been to an LDS funeral. If not, it's a positively confusing, uplifting swirl of emotion. But it nearly always ends with not just tears being dried, but lingering smiles and quiet laughter and fond memories all swirling together with satisfaction than embraces the sorrow.
Hope, and promise, and faith, and trust in the realness of things we cannot now see. Most of my LDS friends haven't accomplished much in the way the world might celebrate, though many of them are talented and accomplished. There is joy in finding out the little pieces of them that are planted in others after they are gone. The quiet, thoughtful, kept in the heart secrets that blessed the lives they touched. I also love hearing the story of their lives contributed by others that were a different experience than we created together.
Like the friend who died who owned dozens of cookbooks because she loved to read them, but she didn't cook. She made long lists of people she intended to bless and worked her way through them. Her life touched hundreds of students. Or the friend who I had no idea how many adventures he had growing up, including dangling his younger relatives out of the bottom of a plane as they skimmed over the desert. And how he'd drop everything to be there for a friend. Or the piano teacher who touched thousands over the years personally and musically. Who suffered many years physically but never complained and always wore a smile on her lips as she inquired about you and encouraged others. Or my friend's grandson today, who isn't remembered for scholastics, or sports, or music necessarily, but the rose left for every girl without a valentine, the helping a stranded stranger with a car in his suit while his date waited, the dancing in the kitchen as a handsome prince with his baby sister and her cousin dressed as princesses.
The celebration of their lives goes deep down in me, touches me, and inspires me to be and do a little better than I am being and doing.
My mother's funeral was not like that. I sat behind a curtain with my other family members who I did not know, at the front of the congregation. There was a disruption by a family member that completely stressed me out. The music was unfamiliar and there was only a little joy in hearing what some of her friends had to say about her. Perhaps it isn't fair because I can't think of a funeral at any church that would be a celebration when there is suicide. I can't think of ever attending an LDS funeral under those circumstances.
Anyway, with the vacuuming over and the funeral of the first of three boys finished, and time to ponder, I marveled at the teenage girl sitting alone among family strangers, with nothing and no one familiar, and a load of grief, regret, and sorrow, contrasted with a large family, larger extended family, hundreds of friends, and hundreds of supportive church and community members and the shared joy and laughter in the celebration of a life cut short far too young. (No, I'm not correcting that runon sentence. At least not now). I left uplifted by the faith and hope and trust in a Father with a great plan of happiness.
It's quite a difference. I love the faith, family, friendship, and fellowship, the shared burden, and the ultimate truths that lift and inspire and hope and trust in a forward time when there will be no more tears or grief or sorrow because of a Savior and His Father with a great plan of happiness that returns us to Him.
Knowing that, and the source of my clinging to things, allows me to consider letting go of the things, and embracing what truly brings joy. Interacting and sharing my life in such a way that when the time comes for my funeral, people will leave drying tears from their eyes, with a softened smile on their lips, a chuckle in their heart, and wanting to be and do a little better than they are being and doing. Maybe their sorrow will be kissed by the satisfaction of a combined story lived through each person I touched. My hope is that they too will look forward with hope to a loving Savior and Father and the plan that brings us all back together and a desire to be and do better.



















































































