My sisters Barbara and Elizabeth and my brother John, along with two of their spouses and a daughter, were on their way to Missouri when the call came. They had planned this trip for a long time, to visit my brother Jonas who had been struggling with increasing health troubles. The plan was to take him fishing,to visit, relax, and enjoy just being together.
The call changed everything. Jonas was gone and there would be no visiting, fishing, or anything else, not with Jonas, not here, not ever again.
Paul and I had just returned from vacation and were catching up on things at home. I said only the day before I didn't know how I was possibly going to do everything I had committed to do in the next few days. It turns out it is possible to make time for what is really important, to rearrange the mediocre obligations of one's life, and the world does not cease to turn.
My Ohio siblings, brothers Tobe and Emanuel, my sister Sadie and I, made our plans quickly and set out early in the morning for Jonas' house seven hundred miles to the west. I had always said I should go visit, but I had never followed through. Interestingly, one can make the time to do the distance, when it comes right down to it. All the things I thought were so important, so obligatory, dissolved in an instant. There was never any thought of not going. To say good-by to the first one of my siblings to take the great journey into the next stage of life, well, it was unthinkable not to do it.
We arrived at our destination after dark and drove straight through town, pretty much missing it entirely. I called my brother Bill who had arrived earlier from SC, and he talked us through to the church. How we ever found anything before cell phones, I am not sure. Several miles down a dusty gravel road, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, we finally reached our destination. We were almost the last to arrive and were surrounded immediately with family from all corners of the country.
Jonas always loved family gatherings. Our biennial family reunion was an event he never missed. Until his health prevented him from coming to the last one. Someone called him from there and turns were taken to talk to him. His tears could be heard through the phone; he said he was so glad we called. I couldn't help but think how much he would have loved to be here, in the middle of all of us, handing out hugs and asking about the latest happenings in our lives. I wondered, as I often do at such occasions, if the departed are allowed to see how much they meant to all those they left behind.
After hellos and hugs all around, we were pointed to tables of food in the church basement, and we were thanked over and over again for coming. As if anyone could have prevented it. Even the crazy man in St. Louis, possessed by road-rage and possibly a demon or two, did not deter us in our journey. But that's a story for another day.
We finally left to go to our hotel. The only hotel around. And I think we filled it entirely. There were about 7 or 8 rooms, all left unlocked for us. An envelope on the night stand instructed us to leave our money in it when we left. The note on the office door said we were pretty much on our own. Two beds in each room left only space for one small stand between them, no lamps, just a wall sconce or two. One sink, one metal folding chair, and one tiny washroom with a tub and toilet. Simple but spotlessly clean. And to me, that's all that matters. I am and always will be a country girl at heart.
My siblings with spouses had their own rooms. Those of us who left our husbands and wives at home doubled up and settled in. My brother Bill and I, the two youngest, ended up roomies. He turned on the tiny TV which was suspended above my bed, I hoped securely, but we soon realized the sketchy reception on the two or so available channels negated any serious viewing. So we talked while we munched on the food he had, with wonderful foresight, packed along. He even had drinks packed in his ice-chest to wash it down. This, by the way, is a family trait. My father had an appreciation for good food. So do his children. But I'm heading down a rabbit trail. Hence the name of my blog.
I talked more to my brother that night than I had done in my whole life before. I realized the wealth my parents have given me. A wealth that has nothing to do with material things and is worth far more. Family members that will always look out for each other are truly priceless.
While we talked and ate and let our weariness take over, we got reacquainted. Separated over the years by age (a six-year difference is a big deal when you're kids, not so much when you pass the half-century mark), by distance, and by life in general, I discovered we have a lot in common and I wished it would not have taken Jonas passing to realize it.
The next day we all gathered at Jonas' house. It was filled to overflowing with brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, and friends. My nephew Delbert, Jonas' oldest son, encouraged us to share memories of our brother, and we did. Some made us laugh and some made us cry. I learned things I had never known before. I discovered he had joined the old-order Amish church in order to win his bride, Lydiann. I heard tales of his escapades with a wild horse and buggy ride that ended with a buggy in pieces and ammunition for years of story-telling. We talked of a frantic trip to the hospital when one of his sons was born, and the record-breaking speed of a flat tire change en route. We reminisced of his love for fishing and spending time with his children. I saw him in a new way. As a young man, fun-loving and full of life, free of the oxygen tank he had been forced to drag with him everywhere in the last few years of his life.
After a funeral at a small, packed country church we drove in procession down a long, dusty road to a graveyard tucked far from the highway. Under trees at the crest of a gently sloping hill, Jonas was laid to rest. I looked out across the hills and realized no finer place could there be to have as a final resting place. And I wondered if he could see us. Was he watching, along with his two sons, his father, and his two mothers who had gone on before? Or were they all too busy celebrating their reunion to think about those of us left behind? With each loved one that leaves this life, the future and all that lies beyond our ability to see, become more real to me. What sights are they seeing? What are they hearing? What incredible things are they experiencing?
As is the custom among some of our kind, family and friends took turns with the shovels, covering the casket with earth. The first time I saw this, it jarred me, seeming cruel in a way. But I've come to see it for what it is meant to be. A final act of respect and farewell. From dust we came and to dust we shall return, the scriptures tell us. And so it is.
I left that place determined to stay connected, to take those trips, to make those phone calls, to find the time for what's important. I left there determined to separate the trivial from the essential. I left there richer than when I came.
