A Firstborn’s Memory
This entry is to commemorate my father’s passing two years ago.
The day after my father passed away, it was determined that I would be the one to find and select the specific location where we would have his burial. So I went with a representative from a cemetery and a few of my father’s relatives.
I didn’t like the cemetery representative; I thought she was obnoxious and rude. Alas, I was stuck with her. She showed me a few options in their complex, which was comprised of several ‘gardens’ with different themes, and I could weigh the various layouts, views, etc. Meaning, not all spots were made equal. Traditionally, the Chinese cares much about giving a proper, even grandeur burial, rooted perhaps in ancestor worship. Of course I do not subscribe to that, but I saw this task as my last chance to do the best I could for my father’s honor. I felt like it was upon me to ensure that this last tribute to him would be proper and honorable.
As we went from place to place I felt the weight of the decision dawned on my entire being. I was faced with some trade-offs. There was a garden named “Sabbath” – what a proper name for a place of rest. My father died on the Sabbath day too. This garden was beautiful and it seemed like the perfect place. I thought, yea, he would like this. However, this particular spot was definitely above our budget.. The other sites were nice, although they did not strike me that much. I had to select one out of those and because I felt like they were not as special, I really wanted to drive down the cost. If we couldn’t get the “Sabbath” spot, at least maybe my success could be monetary. Inside, I was very conflicted with what decisions to make, and in the midst of this, suddenly I realized how much I missed my father. My mind kept saying, if he was here, he would know exactly what to do..
Mind you this process also involved me getting insulted by some comments that the representative made and snapping at her. At one point I couldn’t deal with her anymore and broke down. My father’s relatives had to educate her why the things that she said were offensive to the culture and to the family, which she should have known given the context of her work. They told her to stop saying those things because they hurt.
I couldn’t drive the price as low as I wanted. I ended up with a selection, although I didn’t know if I felt completely satisfied with it. Given the whole situation, a soup of emotions just flooded over me. I was literally sobbing all the way back and almost for the rest of the day. I felt like the lady insulted my father and my family, and I was angry at her; I felt like I failed my task – as the eldest, I was supposed to do this well; I questioned whether I did the right thing, whether my father would have approved and been happy with my decision; and I missed him because I knew if he was alive, even if I didn’t make the best decision and was disappointed in myself, he would have comforted me and said it was okay.
I came back to the funeral home and told my mother I couldn’t get the price lower, which was really a message loaded with my self-disappointment, and she said it was okay; we would give the best for my father. I signed the deal and the papers with the representative. I did eventually apologized to her and vice versa, although that didn’t change my opinion that she was a bad salesperson. It was ironic, but the piece of land where my father would be buried was now to be purchased under my name. Legally, that piece of ‘property’ belonged to me, and that would be so for as long as life on earth would last. Personally, I felt a weird and profound connection between my father and myself as his eldest daughter in this situation; a connection that is tinged with one word – responsibility.
I don’t think I have recounted this experience to a single soul. Alas, some things are too hard to communicate verbally. Besides, it’s been two years…
Sometimes I think about the many decisions in life that my father wouldn’t have a say in. There are many things for which I actually would want his counsel and opinions, and I have no clue what his thoughts would be because no similar situation had come up before and I simply had not asked. But I am not without counsel and I am not Fatherless, so there is no need to despair.
Time heals. It really does. But even more than that, God heals. I can testify to the healing power of the balm of Gilead, and the Lord has ministered to me tremendously the past two years. I don’t know if I can say I’m over it 100%, since there are times when it’s just simply hard, like when unexpected things come up that triggered memories. And I don’t know whether I will ever get over it 100%. But perhaps that’s okay, so as to remind me that this world is not my home.
Here’s a video clip that I made last year: Tribute