My kitchen counter was a beautiful mess of pink, white, red, yellow, and orange flowers, tissue paper, and ribbons. My sister, Elizabeth, and I assembled simple bouquets of roses, baby’s breath, alstroemeria, and Gerber daisies for my husband, Robert’s, funeral. The task was repetitive and meditative, and all that I could handle. We would bury Robert the next day.
Always prepared
In late 2022, long before Robert was admitted to hospice, I purchased a cremation package for each of us. Admittedly this is an odd thing to do when you’re in good health. Giving head space to your own death feels at best too practical and at worst, terribly morbid. But of course, in 2022 Robert was not in good health. He was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia in 2017. The kids and I had been watching him decline for years.
Guiding my decision
Robert is a member of the Bahá’í Faith. Bahá’í burial law states that Bahá’ís must be buried, not cremated. But in late 2021 I learned of a change in Bahá’í law that allowed for cremation.
I purchased Robert’s cremation package with a great sense of relief.
A funeral felt like an excessive and expensive production for a person who was no longer with us. I’m not a particularly sentimental person. I haven’t collected many tchotchkes to commemorate our myriad family adventures. And I’m not big on tradition or ritual.
A cremation followed by a pleasant memorial service some weeks or months later seemed far more appropriate to my sensibilities. Moreover, a planned memorial service would give me time to notify our friends and relatives, rent a venue, order flowers, and create the requisite memorial photo collage, proof of Robert’s life, well-lived. I reasoned that if we waited to host a service at some point in the future, we would have some distance from his passing and we’d be able to focus solely on remembering him. We wouldn’t be so sad.
But I had misunderstood…so many things
During the disorder and unknowns of the COVID-19 pandemic, Bahá’ís received a temporary exemption from burial in those cases when the local health department recommended against it. But this specific, and temporary dispensation did not change Bahá’í law. This is how I found myself in late August 2023 a few weeks before Robert died, scrambling to unwind his cremation package1 and arrange for his burial.
When I first realized my error, I panicked. The prospect of identifying a burial plot for Robert, and arranging for his funeral was overwhelming and there didn’t seem to be enough time. Robert was very sick. (In the end, our kids chose his burial plot.)
I could tell you all about my visits to various local cemeteries and the laundry list of “add-ons” one can purchase with a funeral package, but that isn’t the focus of this story. This story is about how I came to appreciate the ritual of Robert’s funeral. It is about how ritual saved us from being swallowed by grief. The ritual of Robert’s funeral helped us to process his death.
Preparing for the funeral
The kids and I decided to host a graveside burial followed by a reception at my home.
I wanted to bury Robert in keeping with his Faith, but I hadn’t the faintest idea how to proceed. In my alarm, I turned to the Bahá’í community for help. Melissa Millersohn, a local Bahá’í, held my hand through the process. She explained that I needed to procure a length of white cotton or silk cloth for wrapping Robert’s body. Kindly she gifted us with a Bahá’í burial ring that while not required, is a beloved attestation of Faith for Bahá’ís. She helped me think through the agenda for his graveside service and she helped me select the music we’d play.
Bahá’í burial law stipulates that the deceased should be buried within 24 hours and no more than one hour’s travel from where they died. This is almost impossible to manage in our modern society. Bodies must be prepared (Bahá’ís are washed, but not embalmed), death certificates generated, and burial permits issued.
When all the legal details of Robert’s burial were sorted, we arrived at a date seven days after his passing. This turned out to be okay. The tension between Bahá’í and County law meant that Robert was laid to rest as quickly as possible, but not so quickly that friends and family struggled to arrive for his service.
The cavalry arrives
My sister, Elizabeth, was the first to arrive. She helped me prepare the house for visitors and make a run to Costco for food and drink for everyone. I was too fragile to manage this alone. I found it hard to drive and impossible to interact with checkers in line at Costco or anywhere else. More often than not, I wore a look of dazed confusion. (I was even perplexed by the sunrise the day after Robert passed. “How can the sun be shining? Robert has died.”)
Jackson and his girlfriend, Evelyn, flew in the next day. The four of us cleaned up the yard and deck to accommodate the visitors I hoped would arrive. We borrowed lawn chairs and extra tables. We purchased trash bins for garbage, compost, and recycling. These practical considerations tethered me to the moment. The world, as I knew it, had disappeared.
And still, more came
Robert’s brother, John, and his wife, Grace, flew in from Southern California two days before the funeral. I was so relieved to see them. They shared a history with Robert even longer than my own. They also understood what we had lost. I can’t explain how important their presence was to me. They were my witness to this tragedy.
My sisters Lana and Janie flew in the day before the funeral. I was so touched to see them. They have busy lives and I was not expecting them to make the trip from the Midwest. I understand this is a normal thing that people do, but I haven’t been to many funerals. My parents are still living. I am unfamiliar with how people come together in times of unrelenting sorrow.
I posted Robert’s obituary on Facebook. (Unfortunately, contemporary newspapers are engaged in a bit of “death profiteering”2. Printed obituaries are no longer an option for many.)
Would anyone remember him?
I worried that Robert had been forgotten. He used to roam the neighborhood, interacting in unpredictable ways with everyone he met. But it had been almost three years since Robert was out and about. People move on.
The day of Robert’s funeral was overcast and wet. A fine mist speckled our clothes and hair. My trepidation on the ride to the cemetery was palpable. My face was flushed and anxious. Would this funeral do justice to this man I loved so much?
We were not the first to arrive at the cemetery.
Were those my friends from my volunteer activities? They didn’t really know Robert. Were they here for me? Were those Bahá’ís from across the County? Yes, they were. And Maddie’s friends from grade school? And their parents? Were those Jackson’s friends from high school? And their families? Were those the friends Robert had performed comedy with? Had our friends of 30 years ago made the drive from San Francisco? Were those my friends and neighbors from book club? I was overwhelmed and humbled by the outpouring of love and affection for our dear, sweet Robert.
Beauty in grief
The funeral service was beautiful. Everyone who spoke had sweet or funny memories to share. John told ridiculous, unbelievable stories of Robert’s youth. Ken shared tales of their courageous, late-night comedy shows on the local TV station. With a trembling voice, my dear son-in-law, Trent, shared his love for the man who had been a role model in parenting.
At the end of the service, we laid roses on Robert’s casket and watched as it was lowered into the ground. Lincoln, at nearly four years old, was especially concerned about the proceedings. He repeatedly needed confirmation that Grandpa’s body was in the box and that he was being buried. The truth of it was hard for him to understand, but the repeated telling helped us accept the finality of the moment.
Finally at rest
We drove back to the house in fits and starts of conversation. The sun finally came out when we arrived. It glanced off the smiling faces of Maddie’s friends. It dappled the light under the lemon tree and swallowed Jackson’s friends’ freshly scrubbed faces. I watched with gratitude as my parenting cohort sat around our dining table sharing stories of Robert. Interacting was furthest from my mind; I wanted only to stand in silence amid all the joy rippling through the gathering. I could have stood for hours, watching in awe, these living, breathing memorials to his splendid life.
For months I had doubted myself. Did I give Robert everything he needed in this life? Did I love him enough?
And then it hit me. We exist in the rich, singular context of our place and our time. My love for Robert was just a piece of the love he carried. Our entire community loved him.
It was never all up to me.
- The monies used to pre-pay cremation and funeral expenses are held in trust until they are used. Funds held in trust can be refunded. It is important to note, however, that some pre-paid items, like cremation/memory boxes attached to some packages, are sold as merchandise. These must be returned intact for a full refund. ↩︎
- When I was young, the local paper would run obituaries alongside the news or classified ads. Today, our local newspaper charges $6.40 for every 25 characters. And obituaries are now called “life tributes”…which encourages a lengthier narrative. So if you’ve ever wondered why some “life tributes” are so short, I’m sure the cost has something to do with it. ↩︎