A Hands-On Goodbye: A Personal Story

The morning sunrise arrives a little later, and the evening sunset a little earlier - almost as if the passing of time is speeding up. The days of stepping outside without a heavy jacket are slipping away, and I find myself savoring these final moments of warmth as the days shorten and the nights stretch longer.

This time of year brings me into a season of reflection, a second season of “remembering,” where closure and transition have been on my heart.

September and October have always been months of ceremony and celebration in my family, and it's not lost on me that this season of transition is also the time when my mom and dad were born (Dad 09/17, Mom 10/12), married (09/18), and passed away (Mom 09/06 and Dad 10/10). The natural rhythm of this time of year mirrors the rhythms of their lives, and this brings me into deeper reflection about the role of ritual during life’s transitions.

I want to share something deeply personal about how we, as a family, approached my parents’ passing.

We buried my mom’s ashes in the most beautiful box the funeral home offered—cherry-stained wood with intricate flowers carved into it, a design that felt like a perfect tribute to her love of flowers. As beautiful as it was, it could not soften the shock of seeing her once strong and resilient body reduced to ashes. The smallness of the box seemed incomprehensible. Yet, I strapped it into the backseat of the car, where her living body had once sat on countless journeys together.

Between conversations with my dad - who was hanging on by a thread - I couldn’t help but glance at the backseat, the spot where she had always sat. My husband, Dan, held onto the box for the six-hour drive to the family cemetery plot. Dan and my mom shared many miles together in that car. He would lovingly tease her, and she soaked in the joy and attention, a needed reprieve from her suffering. She loved to laugh, and Dan loved to make her laugh.

When we arrived, we met our son Brett, his then fiancée, my sister Julie and my niece Megan at the family cemetery. Though we briefly considered a traditional funeral, we quickly realized none of us had the capacity for it, especially with Dad in the shape he was in. His dementia left him unable to understand that Mom had been sick, let alone that she had died.

So, we made a different choice. We decided to take a hands-on, private approach to her burial. Armed with shovels, we surveyed the family plot, discussing where she would lie in relation to my brothers, Rollo and Scott, and where Dad would eventually be buried. Taking turns, we dug the grave ourselves, occasionally laughing at how we were doing the job typically hired out. It felt fitting, though. Our family has always done things a little differently, and now, I see the beauty in that more than ever.

We gathered in a circle, some of us reading poems or passages, playing songs that meant something to Mom, telling stories. We sat in silence too, exhausted, sorrowful, and filled with disbelief. I carefully placed the simple, wooden cross that I had whittled as a way to work through the shock of her passing in front of the family stone. The task of burying her - ushering her out of this world - was monumental, leaving us heartbroken, yes, but also relieved. Except for Dad. I have no way of knowing what he truly understood. He seemed to exist in multiple realities, and the one in which Mom had died was the one he couldn’t accept.

When the ritual ended, we had no time to rest. Dad was starting to become confused about where he was, and we knew we had to get him back home. The fear he was beginning to feel was just a glimpse of what was to come - he would soon be lost in the harsh reality that he would never go home with his wife again. So, instead of sitting in our grief, we turned our focus to Dad, caring for him as best we could.

His dementia made it impossible for him to retain the memory of her death. Each morning, we relived it with him, watching his heart break all over again. For a while, we kept the door to her room closed, unable to face the emptiness where her presence was so alive. But soon, we knew it was better to confront the reality: she was gone, and no amount of avoiding it would change that. There were brief moments when Dad seemed to grasp that she was gone, and those moments offered us a sliver of peace, as we didn’t have to explain her death. But those moments were fleeting, and over time disappeared altogether leaving him in a fog of despair.

Each time he realized again that she was gone, he told us he didn’t want to live anymore, that he wanted to be with her. As heart wrenching as it was to hear him say those words, we didn’t blame him and tried our best to comfort him while struggling with our own grief. Dad lived in a perpetual state of shock and sorrow, and his heart shattered beyond repair when Mom died. Little did we know at the time that he would never recover.

One month later, Dad passed away, too. He slipped away during a brief moment when I had left his bedside - a moment that sometimes brings a smile to my face because, of course he did. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

To say that we were all in a state of disbelief after he died is an understatement. Taking a deep breath, we all put in the same bereavement requests for time off of work. We went to the same funeral home. Filled out the same paperwork. We picked out nearly the same box, minus the flowers, for the ashes to hold a strong body built from a lifetime of hard work. We made the same trip to the same cemetery, traveling the same six hours. This time, with two empty seats in the car. I remember thinking that I had never driven that car without them in those two seats and how excruciatingly painful it was that they would never occupy them again.

We played different songs but repeated the ritual that we conducted for mom. It turns out, they make concrete burial vaults that perfectly hold two cremation boxes. Moving moms ashes from where we buried them just four short weeks before into this vault to be next to dad was worth the extra effort and tears. Side by side in death, just as they had been in life.

Death and dying rituals, as we know them in modern Western culture, typically center around traditional funerals. These rituals are designed to give families closure and a sense of support from their community. But for us, this private, hands-on ritual was what we needed. It allowed us to fully engage with the loss in a deeply personal way, unburdened by performative expectations. The North Dakota wind, the black dirt under our hands, our tears - all of the elements became part of the ritual. Carefully placing their ashes into the ground, one by one, was the closure we needed.

Quite a bit later that fall, we gathered with a few extended family members in the family home, sharing food, drink, and countless stories about Mom and Dad’s impact on so many lives. This gathering, held after the initial shock had begun to fade, complemented the burial in a way that felt just right.

Our way of honoring my parents’ transition may seem unconventional. You might even think we’re a little crazy for digging the graves ourselves, and that’s okay. But for us, it was exactly what we needed - and what we believe Mom and Dad would have wanted. It all felt so natural and somehow as though we had taken a step back in time.

Sometimes, we think rituals need to be complex or extravagant, or we associate them with something dark or mysterious. But rituals are simply ways to actively engage with the pain of loss. They connect us to the ones we’ve lost and to one another. They need not be complicated. For me, lighting a candle and setting an intention is enough to create a sacred space for reflection and remembrance. Rituals allow us to pause and be with our loved ones in a different way, to send them love, gratitude, and to continue our bond with them in a new form.

As we move through this season of fall, I encourage you to create a simple ritual that honors the elements of nature. Sit on the ground, light a candle, and express gratitude for the love you’ve shared with someone dear. This act, though simple, is a powerful grief practice. It fosters a deeper connection with those who have passed and creates a space for healing.