The Angelic Occurrence

by Henry K. Ripplinger

  Jeremy and Allison did Bible readings. Margaret at the start, after communion and at the end of the mass sang solos which brought everyone to tears.

  Again, Henry decided not to speak. He couldn’t bring himself to read the letter he wrote the other day in his old bedroom. If he read it, he somehow felt it would only draw sympathy and attention to himself from those in attendance. He decided he would say it in private, just between him and his mom. He would wait and say his parting words, his last farewell to his mother at her grave site, when the two of them had a moment alone.

  Chapter Forty

  James Dickson had looked after the Memorial Garden Cemetery for almost forty years. His co-workers called him Rip, short for ‘Rest In Peace.’ He was the chief grounds-keeper for the cemetery. It was his job to put down the sod, trim and cut the grass, plant flowers and in general make the grounds look beautiful and serene, conveying the atmosphere that everyone there was in fact well looked after and ‘resting in peace’.

  Rip was an only child, his parents had long preceded him and over the years the deceased members of the cemetery had become his family. Tending to the cemetery was more than just a job, it became his mission in life to serve and honour the dead by making their final home as beautiful as possible.

  Over the years Rip had come to know the remaining living members of the various families as well, when they visited the respective grave sites. He got to know their habits, the days they would visit and anniversary dates so well, that he went out of his way to plant a flower or lay a bouquet at the grave site in anticipation of them coming. He derived such joy and pleasure seeing how his efforts lifted their spirits and alleviated some of the grief they still carried. Rip served both the living and the dead and he took his purpose in life deadly serious.

  He was just pruning and turning the soil around a row of petunias and irises along the front of a 10-foot long, 4-foot high continuous tomb stone. An entire family of six had died in a house fire over a year ago and relatives decided to put one huge tombstone in, rather than individual ones to convey the idea of a family being together.

  Just as he finished tending to the plants, the slamming of car doors drew his attention. He stood and saw Henry’s family and a few other mourners, walking towards the grave site prepared for the deceased just on the other side of tombstone where he was standing.

  A priest and six pallbearers, carrying the casket, led the way. Rather than head back to the shed, Rip decided to just sit down behind the large tombstone and wait until the funeral was over. It looked like a small funeral party and probably wouldn’t take all that long. He enjoyed listening to a funeral service; it helped him gain some background for the newest member of his family. Besides, his bones had been aching lately, and a little rest would do him good.

  Father stood at the edge of the open grave, while the pallbearers set the casket down. Everyone else gathered around the casket to join in the prayers and say their final farewell. After everyone was settled, Father bowed his head and began the graveside prayers. He didn’t speak anymore about Mary and her life, rather he said a private prayer to himself and ended up by saying out loud, “We will miss you dearly, Mary.” Finally, he blessed the grave and put ashes on top of the casket.

  When the burial service was over, several people approached Henry to express their condolences then headed back to the church hall for a lunch and social gathering. His children as well, came to him and they hugged as they gazed for the last time at their grandma. Henry told them to go back to the hall and wait for him there as he wanted to stay behind for a little bit. Henry asked one of the chauffeurs to return for him in about half an hour. He watched as they all piled into the car and drove away. He then walked over to the edge of the grave and stood in front of his mother’s casket, almost in the same spot that Father Engelmann had stood just minutes earlier.

  Rip, assuming everyone had left, got up to resume his work. He was surprised to see Henry standing all alone at the edge of the open grave in front of the casket, his back towards him, not more than three feet away. Not wanting to disturb or frighten Henry, Rip quietly sat down again out of view behind the tombstone.

  Henry reached inside his breast jacket pocket and pulled out the letter he had written to his mom. Thinking he was all alone, he unfolded the letter and began reading it to her.

  “Perhaps when I was writing this letter to you in my old room, Mom, you were standing over my shoulder and already knew what was in my heart, but I need to read this to you now, to get it out…and…well…

  Dear Mom,

  What words can a son say to his mother that would express his gratitude for giving me life, for giving me the joy of knowing you, being loved by you, being served by you and for all the sacrifices you have made over the years, for all the days of my life…

  Henry stopped, as he walked over to the side of the casket, knelt down beside it, and released the clasp which held the lid of the casket closed. He opened the casket and the sun chased out the inner darkness, enveloping his mother with warmth. Her face glistened, as the light danced off the stillness of her features.

  “There, I am so glad it was sunny, today. Oh, how I wish I could package the sun and enclose it with you.”

  He stood up, again, and spoke in a tone of sadness and joy. Sadness, because she was gone and there would be no more visits, no more Sunday evenings, no more chats and laughter like bursts of sunshine around the dinner table. Her smiles, the twinkle in her eyes, her mannerisms, all would now be memories.

  And yet, Henry felt joy and gratitude. How fortunate that he had been blessed with a mother like her, the care and tenderness she always exhibited, her example of faith, her life of integrity, her grace and elegance. She had always been there, always so ready to give, to guide and to help.

  Henry started to read the letter again, but his hands immediately dropped to his sides, the right hand still holding the letter. Some of the thoughts he just expressed were in the letter, he didn’t need to read it, and she knew what it contained. So he spoke from the heart, expressing each thought as it came to him.

  Going back in time, from his earliest memories, starting at elementary school and how this was the beginning of them being separated from each other and how it continued over the years. How she had instilled values, discipline and responsibility, gradually letting go, giving him more freedom to be more independent into the teenage years, then getting married and leaving home until now…their final separation.

  Yet within his growing independence, rather than grow apart as often happens in families, their bond and friendship just grew and deepened. She so enjoyed being a part of his life and participating in it. It made Henry reflect on talks they had when he started dating. First with Jenny and then with Julean his mom just loved to hear about his feelings and about how his date went. She showed interest without embarrassing him or stopping him from talking.

  Henry shifted as he recalled how many times he held back, and now he wished he hadn’t, he denied her joy. He realized now that his feelings were not really so special; that she, too, had been a young girl once. She, too, had similar feelings. Henry wished he knew her private thoughts – how she was when she was a little girl, about her teenage years and her boyfriends before dad, how her relationships were with her parents, her likes and dislikes.

  “Why is it we wait so long to have these talks?” Henry now questioned. “As I see you pass into eternity, everything about you is uppermost in my mind and I now regret, not taking the time to talk to you more about your life and what was important to you.

  “Yet, I do know you, at least what I feel are the important parts. I know you had a very good heart, a very kind and caring heart, so insightful and sensitive. You never went to school beyond grade 10, and yet your instinct, empathy and understanding would have made a seasoned psychiatrist look like an apprentice.

  “I was always amazed how you knew me through an
d through. I couldn’t hide anything from you.” Henry smiled at the thought of her discovering his plan to seek out Jenny after grade twelve.

  “I am who I am, today, because of you. I know what is important, today, because of you, as well, especially by the example of your faith, how you believed in God. Yours was a simple accepting faith, nothing complicated. You never made believing in God difficult like I do so many times, questioning this and that, always going around in a circle, trying to be so smart and lofty. And, as soon as a problem comes along, I run to Him like a child to his mother with a bruised knee, seeking comfort and help.

  “I remember to this day how when you and dad had your troubles, you placed your entire faith and belief in God that He would restore your relationship with each other and He did, and that will forever be in my heart.”

  Henry shifted again to catch some shade from the elm which had moved with the sun.

  “So, here we are. You have finished your role as a mother, you have raised your family as best you knew how, you have been a very good mother and a faithful wife and now you are laid to rest. I will miss you, Mom. I will miss you more than anything. I know that a part of me is going down this grave with you, today.

  “How quickly life goes by. The cycle of life goes on and doesn’t stop for any man and yet I wish I could stop time for a moment and have everyone and everything pay tribute to you. For the whole world to be silent for just one minute and give recognition for your existence, that you were here and what you have done, the seeds of love you have planted and given so freely, the lifestyle you lived for us to emulate, we should honour you, bless you, praise you and thank you for everything.”

  Henry didn’t know how to say any more deeply how much she meant to him, to Dad, to the kids, to Father, and how dearly, how very dearly they all loved her.

  Henry regretted not telling her that more often, giving her more hugs, saying more words of appreciation and that he was sorry for all those times he took her for granted, perhaps all those times when she needed a kindly word, when she needed some care and kindness like she always was ready to give to others.

  “Regardless of how tired you were.” Henry muttered. “Yes, we should take more time to let each other know how deeply we appreciate each other, how much we love each other and care for each other and need each other.

  Why does it take the death of loved one to make us realize what we have failed to do?”

  A waterfall of tears flowed from Rip’s eyes as he listened intently and was smitten by Henry’s words. In so many ways it brought back memories of the relationship he had with his mother, as well. There was one memory that he’d tried to suppress over the years, but every now and then when his guard was down – like now, for example – it would come to the fore. He didn’t approve of his mother remarrying after his father died and had never accepted his step-father and was always cold and distant towards him. He knew it hurt his mother, but he ignored his mother’s feelings until the day she died.

  Henry’s words, stirred Rip’s feelings of regret. His guilt and shame now faced him head on and more tears of sorrow flowed from deep within.

  The dappled shadows of the elm’s leaves fell on the casket as flickering light. It reminded Henry of the light streaming in from his mother’s kitchen window. How she loved the sun warming her face as she stood in front of the sink, her fingers playing with the water. Often Henry would catch her with her eyes closed and her face titled towards the rays of light as if in prayer.

  It’s ironic that she would die on the day she was making his favourite soup. He could smell it now with extra dill in it, as if he were in the kitchen. To him, its fragrance was more aromatic, more unforgettable, more lasting, than the most expensive French perfume that money could buy. In a way, it was her last gift to him. He had so been looking forward to their Wednesday lunch together.

  Henry looked at the letter again almost checking to see if he had forgotten to express anything. His eyes brightened as he thought about what he would most miss about his mother. He raised his eyes from the page and looked lovingly at his mother closed eyes.

  “You were always there for me as my very best friend. Your smiles like sunshine, ready to chat in a world that seemed to never sit still. There was no hurry in your home. Everyone who sat at your table got your full attention. You made it a safe haven of joy and peace and whenever I left, I left with a happy heart and for the better. You made me feel welcome, that I was lovable and good, that I always had a home to come home to…”

  Henry couldn’t go on. He was spent and had exhausted himself. Tears spilled out and rolled down his cheeks as the full realization that it would all be a memory hit him – the home he once knew and loved would never be the same, again. He wept as he fell silent and watched as the shade crept further up the casket ready to steal away the last ray of sun from his mother’s angelic face.

  Rip could no longer hear Henry and thought that perhaps he left. He crawled on all fours to the edge of the tombstone and peeked around the granite corner. He was awestruck by what he saw. The lid of the casket lay open and Henry still stood there holding the letter he had just read. He seemed to be in a deep state of contemplation or prayer unaware of the beautiful butterflies flitting all about him. For years Rip was well aware of the significance of butterflies in the cemetery. To him they served as angelic messengers or the spirits of the deceased loved ones themselves coming to comfort those left behind.

  Henry blinked, bringing himself out of his ruminations and folded the letter, then bent over and tucked it between his mother’s arm and her chest. He looked at his mother one last time.

  A vision of perfect peace.

  “Take my words of love wrapped in the sunshine with you into eternity, mom.”

  The grounds-keeper stared intently, as Henry closed the lid of the casket and secured the clasp once again. Henry stood erect, patted the lid, and walked away.

  Rip was dazed by what he had just witnessed. In all the years as chief landscaper and caretaker for the cemetery, he had never witnessed such a poignant scene. He hoped that the grieving man had seen the beautiful yellow butterfly that had landed on top of the closed casket. He got up, brushed off the soil from his hands and the knees of his work trousers. He made his way to the other end of the cemetery where his mother lay at rest. He wanted to thank her, now, as well, and to ask for forgiveness for all the times he had hurt or disappointed her. He really had liked his step-father, but his stubbornness and pride had gotten in the way. He wanted to set the record straight.

  In the week that followed, Rip’s heart, heavy from caring for his increasing family in the cemetery, finally gave out. Someone else would take over his duties and make certain that Rip could ‘Rest in Peace.’

  Henry meandered through the cemetery towards the lane where the driver would come to pick him up.

  “Please, Lord,” Henry muttered as he strolled along, “Help me never to forget my mother’s greatest lesson, to always take time for family, to love and to serve. Help me to pass on to my children the example you were to me.”

  Perspiration rolled down Henry’s back as he strolled under the hot sun. The leaves in the large elm trees were motionless, not even a slight whisper of a breeze, unusual for the prairies. Absently, Henry wandered into the shade of the trees, one of those rare times he sought respite from the sun. The silence of the cemetery was unceremoniously broken by the honking of hundreds of Canadian geese heading south.

  It made Henry think of his own mortality. How quickly the years go by. How we are born into a family, have our childhood, and soon leave to raise our own family and all too soon our parents die and then it’s our turn.

  Just one continuous ongoing cycle.

  At the end of the day it’s all about love, isn’t it? How many people lying here are remembered for how much they have loved? How would he be remembered? Perhaps for his accomplishments, his paintings, his busi
ness, the houses he had transformed. But that would only be for awhile; he knew it wouldn’t last.

  “No,” Henry whispered to his silent listeners who knew the full truth albeit for some too late. “If our worth comes from what we have accumulated and amassed, we have failed. Many of our struggles at the expense of family and friends and others have been in vain. You are right, Mom, you always told me I was too busy, to take more time for family, to smell the roses and serve my Lord.”

  Pangs of guilt hit Henry’s stomach as he thought about his life. He was a good family man and much of what he did was in service for others, but he busied himself too much. When Julean was alive he was more focused on life. Since her death, perhaps out of loneliness, he had immersed himself more into the material world, overextending himself more than he needed to. His mother’s death was a wake up call to get back on track and not take for granted what really mattered in life. All his projects, his paintings brought him satisfaction and a sense of security, but not true success.

  Father Engelmann was a prime example of one who had gained true happiness and success. He was free of attachments. He pursued truth not illusions, things which are here today and gone tomorrow. His worth came from being a child of God, one who obeyed the commandments of Christ to love and serve his fellow man. And like Father Engelmann, his mother had lived a life of love, too. She saw the world around her through the eyes of love and this is what Henry knew deep in his heart that he would always remember her for.

  The crackle of gravel beneath the tires of the limousine winding down the lane severed his thoughts. He waved to the chauffeur. As he weaved among the tombstones something looked and felt strangely familiar to him. His eyes immediately dropped to the large inscription below his name and date, larger than life, larger than his own name: