Moving on

Thank you all so much for the kind words of sympathy you offered after the death of my father. It's been a week now since he left this world and I'm finding it harder than I imagined to return to a life of normalcy. We were anticipating his death for a long time...years in fact but now that it's a reality, it seems surreal that he's really gone.

The funeral was beautiful...if a funeral can really be considered beautiful. He and Mom had 7 children--6 of us walked his casket down the aisle for the Mass and my eldest brother escorted my mom behind it...it was almost like a throwback to their wedding procession which took place in that same church 45 years earlier. Then my brothers participated in an old Irish (I think?) tradition of burying their dad: after the priest concluded the prayers over the casket at the burial site, the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground and my brothers, brothers-in-law and nephews (including DH and my two sons) took turns taking shovels full of dirt and throwing it over the coffin. It made a horrible sound when the dirt clods hit the casket and there wasn't a dry eye to be found. It was one of the most emotionally difficult things I've ever experienced, but beautifully symbolic and moving. For Dad's service during the Korean War, Taps was played on the bugle, a 21-gun salute was fired and a US flag was folded and presented to my mother.

Dad would have been so pleased, I think. He was honored, but not eulogized. Lots of wonderful stories were shared about him: how he taught multiple nephews how to pitch a ball when their own dad was not present, how his beautiful deep bass singing voice was the keystone of any given choir, the jokes (oh the jokes!) that he would tell...over and over and over again. But the most important legacy he left behind was the gift of faith and the necessity to cherish and nurture it. He prefaced each family rosary with the intention of praying for a happy death and I believe he died with St. Joseph and Mother Mary at his side. It was always his hope.

Now that we're back home, we're settling into the new normal. I prepared spaghetti last night for dinner...from the freezer. (Not quite able to get back into a real groove of cooking yet.) I noticed the date on the freezer bag containing the sauce said 5-16-10. Dad was still here when I made that sauce. I find myself stopping and taking note of little things like that through the day...sometimes pausing to allow the grief to wash over me and pass on. I'm a lot more weepy this week than I was last week, but that's ok.

I'm doing a lot of good talking to Dad throughout the day and am tasking him with little (and big) intentions I have. Last night, the boys--in an attempt to delay bedtime--wanted to "play Mass". They gathered a plastic cup, (chalice) a plastic plate, (paten) a kitchen towel, (chalice veil) some Ritz crackers (hosts) and some orange juice (wine) and water. They set up a make-shift altar on a bookcase and my youngest wore a Darth Vader cape around his shoulders--"black" he told me "'cause it's Grandpa's funeral Mass".

*gulp*

I did not put them up to this...I kid you not.

And so they offered "Mass" and during the "intercessions" they offered it for all the faithful departed including "Grandpa". They say the prayers of children are the most powerful. And even if it was a fake Mass, I have great faith in the efficacy of my kids prayers.