One funeral wasn’t enough for my dad.
You know those men who are mourned on Facebook as larger than life, the finest, best man the person posting ever knew?
Yeah, that wasn’t my dad.
I imagine I’ll never meet a man who is a bigger puzzle or contrast.
To the other kids we grew up with, most of whose parents were divorced, he was “The Dad.” The one who was at every game, every carpool, every everything.
Yeah, he was that dad.
He was also a man who made some horrendous choices in his life. Caused a lot of pain.
You know those movies where the guy gets it? Where he makes amends to those he’s hurt?
Yeah, that wasn’t my dad.
When he passed away eight years ago this month, most members of my family wanted a quick funeral, laying him and the pain to rest.
Thing is, there was this conversation.
The one my dad and I had about four months before he passed, the one where he told me he’d like to be cremated and have his ashes spread in Hawaii.
Hawaii, where he’d been stationed in the Navy. Hawaii, where we’d taken a lot of family vacations. Hawaii, where he remembered being happy.
Which is sweet, except no one else in the family was interested in taking him to Hawaii.
The brilliant, compassionate woman at the funeral home had the answer.
“Since your father is being cremated,” she explained, “some ashes stay here to be buried. Some go with you to Hawaii.”
Five pounds.
That how much a grown man’s ashes weigh, the lady explained, as she asked how much of him I wanted.
“A couple pounds should do it,” I answered.
About five days after he died, we had the main service. All sorts of folks showed up, including the now-grown kids who worshiped my dad when we were little.
And about eight months later, we headed to Hawaii, just my dad and I. Actually, I shipped him ahead and he was waiting for me at the front desk.
I drove around the island until I found a quiet beach he would’ve loved.
“Put the ashes in the water,” the lady at the funeral home had advised. “They’ll dissolve. You don’t need to worry about wind going wrong direction.”
And so, I did.
No one else in my family understood or cared.
That’s fine.
I didn’t do it for them, or, if I’m honest, even for my dad. I did it for me.
With him gone, I was now in control of the choices. His choices.
The idea that I could honor a man’s final wishes made me feel powerful in a way I hadn’t with him, well, ever.
I share, Dear Reader, simply to say, “Maybe, you, too.”
Maybe your family member who died isn’t Facebook perfect.
Maybe each person in your family needs to work that out in their own way.
Maybe one funeral doesn’t have to be enough.
