Ashes and Foundations

Grief | Rootedness | Finding Eden

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

In April, we brought my mother’s ashes back to the soil she was raised on, a quiet piece of land in farm country, nestled between two creeks on a peninsula in Pennsylvania. It was her home. That place, that earth, carried the memory of generations of laughter and stories, heads bowed and prayers over meals, living through the great depression, blackouts, and ration books. It held memories of Grandma baking many pies, cookies, and cakes, as well as making homemade noodles with the help of her daughters. Grandpa would butcher chickens, cattle, hogs, and go fishing in the creek on the property. Everyone was involved with hay making, and when the chickens became part of the farm, Grandpa would take the eggs, crate them, and take them to town every two weeks. At harvest time, tomatoes would come in as well as wheat and corn. There was a footbridge that stretched above the creek to my great-grandfather’s farm, making it easier to get there. If that old farm could speak, the stories that it would tell would point to resistance, hope, faith, hard work, and love. It was her family’s version of Eden.

When I arrived this time, something was missing. The historic old red brick farmhouse. My grandparents’ house, my mother’s childhood home, was gone. Torn down. In the process of being replaced by something brand new for the two new families that live there. I am so glad for them! Their new home is going to be beautiful for a young, growing family as well as for the older generation who also live there in the dawdy haus.

Even though I knew it was happening, as we had been told of it, the sight of the empty space where that house once stood hit me. It wasn’t just bricks and mortar. That house held echoes of voices, footsteps, hymns, grief, and joy. It held versions of my mom’s family for well over a century. To see it gone coincided with coming back to town to bury my mother, and it was difficult.

The family that has lived there for a long time now is Amish. They are kind and gentle people and deeply rooted in faith. They have always been so gracious to my mom’s siblings and their families. We care for them dearly. They are VERY excited for their new home. They should be. They are creating their version of Eden.

I have peace in knowing the land is still loved and tended to well, and that children still run through those fields. But gratitude doesn’t erase grief. The joy I feel for them doesn’t cancel out the sorrow I carry for the house not being there or for my mom not being there. Both live in me.

I let some of her ashes float into the wind as I drove back out of the long lane, hoping that some would fall into the soil. The farm is changing. I am changing. Life has many moments when we have to say goodbye. Goodbye, house that raised my mom. Goodbye, echoes of laughter within the walls. Goodbye. Hopefully, we will be back to see the new home, furnished and full of love, again, because though things change, Eden can always be found.

But I will never say goodbye to my mom, I carry her with me everywhere I go.