On the day my dad was cremated, our family gathered for the final send-off of his physical body. We stood side-by-side as we sang, cried, hugged, laughed and remembered. We left our private space at the funeral home to await next steps, and walked as a group into the common lobby area. As we entered, wiping our eyes and squeezing the arm of whichever family member we were walking beside, we came upon a man sitting alone.
His eyes were distant and he had obviously been crying. We kept our distance as the COVID protocols required, but also to respect his obvious sadness. Somehow I knew he was there to pick up the cremains of someone he loved. After just a few moments, a women walked into the lobby with a silk covered box which she handed to him. The way he held the box made clear that his loved one’s ashes were inside.
My heart broke for him, not only because his arms were wrapped around a box that contained the physical remains of someone he clearly loved, but because he was doing it alone. I keenly felt the blessing of being surrounded by the people I love while saying goodbye to my dad’s body. I couldn’t take my eyes off of this man as he made his way very slowing from the room and out to his car with the box he’d been handed pressed against his chest.
My mind was spinning as I considered how to help him. How could I (should I?) offer him any comfort in this awful moment? Then I remembered that I had a recycled glass heart in my bag. My whole family was gifted one of these beautiful hearts to represent the ongoing love we have for my dad. This glass object reminds us that love never dies–love is shared from heart to heart to heart and all the love we experience can be paid forward in more love. My mom and each of my siblings had the opportunity to choose a heart that they represented this truth and to act as a token of my dad’s love. As I contemplated what I could offer this man, I knew it had to be my dad heart. I wanted to remind this hurting person that love never dies, even when bodies do.
Deciding to gift the heart was one thing, but approaching him and offering this ornament that might mean nothing to him felt so risky. I definitely did not want to inflict more pain or seem in anyway disrespectful of this man’s grief. Yet, I felt compelled to act.
After a few moments of hesitation I gave away my dad’s love, represented by a small glass heart. My gift was received with grateful tears. Though we exchanged very few words, I knew that giving away the love I was aching to keep for myself did not deplete my store of love–that gift grew more love as a result of the giving. This act of kindness was in honor of my dad, Dan Neff, who I feel sure approved of my decision to give away something that was precious to me to someone who needed it more than I did.