The Saddest and Happiest Place I Know

Grandpa did things old-school. He wanted to be buried on his own property, in a simple, homemade wooden coffin, in a hole dug by a tractor. There was no viewing. He wanted his kids and grandkids to remember him alive. I think it was better that way.

In my mind, there is only grandpa—alive, joking, talking—and then a wooden box that his sons and sons-in-law lowered into the hole with ropes. They are not the same. I never got to see the in-between, I’m not haunted by the image of a man who was almost grandpa, and I think I’m happier for it.

Being with my family, sitting and sobbing with my little brother as we sat by the coffin once more before it disappeared into the earth, and with him singing one last song for grandpa (he loved to come to all of our music recitals) was the strangest mixture of emotions I’ve ever felt. It was terribly sad. How could it not be? But I felt more peace at that simple graveside service in grandpa’s yard than at other funerals I’d been to where I didn’t even know to person who’d passed away. That moment in time was probably the saddest and happiest I’d ever felt. It was the worst place ever—we were saying goodbye to a father, grandfather, and friend. But it was he best place ever because we were together, united in our love for him, and our hope of seeing him again. Family members who hadn’t spoken to each other for a long time, and had refused to come to family reunions, were able to come together, and share their common grief.

He wanted to be buried facing the Kolob Canyon cliffs—beautiful, colorful faces of rock almost hidden by the surrounding plainer-looking mountains. I can’t even describe how beautiful the shades of red, orange, and purple rock look. They remind me of a sunrise. Of a new birth. We buried him facing those peaks, but in my mind, we never really buried him. Sure, we lowered the wooden box and the “bag of bones,” as grandpa liked to call his mortal body, into the earth, but his soul never touched the ground. It soared up to those cliffs, and kept going straight to heaven.

As I have gone back to his grave to visit, it has always been a place of serenity, a place of silence. A somber place, but not a lonely place. A beautiful place full of his spirit. Just as the best songs have both major and minor sections, this place is made all the more beautiful by the opposing emotions I experienced there. There is a very clear and comforting presence. But it doesn’t come from the ground. I feel him as the sunflowers bend in the wind. He loved sunflowers. I feel him in the quiet breeze. I feel him in the strong boulders he chose to be the marking of his grave instead of a tombstone. I feel him in the sunset, as the first stars begin to appear. And I feel him in those mountains. Oh, those mountains!