Ties That Bind, by: David J. Lunsford
TIES THAT BIND
by: David J. Lunsford©copyright 2003, all rights reserved
The loss of a loved one inflicts pain and generates a complex array of
emotions: emotions which swirl at so
dizzying a rate as to be near impossible to categorize, or
sort, or fully discern and interpret. We have just incurred a loss like that, in the very sudden and so unexpected passing of our Aunt Bertha 'Bert' Merz. In the years since we
returned to old Falls City Thelma and I have spent
considerable time with Bert and Uncle Glenn Merz. The familial connection combined with the youthful attitudes, high energy levels and positive outlooks on just about every aspect of Bert
and Glenn's lives made the 25 odd year differences in
our ages seem immaterial to the point we've viewed Glenn and Bert as much as friends as we have elder relatives and mentors. It has always been fun to be around those two and we
have relished the times we have spent in their company.
Uncle Glenn and I have jointly undertaken some building and some refinishing projects and, as I have told many, if I find myself in need of a good carpenter's tip; a tool I lack, or just� some advice on life, it's 'Uncle Glenn' to whom I invariably have turned since our return to Falls City in 1997.
Similarly, Thelma has enjoyed the company of 'Aunt Bert' as they worked together on church luncheons, bowled on the same league, and engaged in one of their favorite activities: 'Shopping'. It seemed to me as I would watch Bert and Thelma shopping that I was witness to a couple of teenaged girls running the mall rather than an octogenarian and aniece in her sixties. What fun they had!
Uncle Glenn and I have jointly undertaken some building and some refinishing projects and, as I have told many, if I find myself in need of a good carpenter's tip; a tool I lack, or just� some advice on life, it's 'Uncle Glenn' to whom I invariably have turned since our return to Falls City in 1997.
Similarly, Thelma has enjoyed the company of 'Aunt Bert' as they worked together on church luncheons, bowled on the same league, and engaged in one of their favorite activities: 'Shopping'. It seemed to me as I would watch Bert and Thelma shopping that I was witness to a couple of teenaged girls running the mall rather than an octogenarian and aniece in her sixties. What fun they had!
Life's ability to present an abrupt turnaround was demonstrated on Tuesday, 2
December 2003, when Aunt Bert suffered a massive cardiac
episode and died. It seemed so unfair, and at this writing (5 December) it still has a feeling of unreality about it. We know it to be true but think perhaps it can't be so, and that we are instead
victimsof some sort of surrealistic dream. Why only last
weekend we ventured out on one of our shopping expeditions!
That time, to the big mall in St. Joseph, Missouri. Uncle Glenn and I fulfilled our functions as chauffeurs, patient observers, and silent bankers, and took vicarious pleasure in watching the 'girls' having fun. Surely that could not be the last such outing? Regrettably, it must be so.
My mother always enjoined me to look for the silver lining, and to seek the positive in any event, no matter how awful it may be. That's been good advice and in this sad event I have turned to it once again. Not much effort is required to find the light when it comes to Uncle Glenn and Aunt Bert. Our lives have been considerably enriched by them. We have been made better people, and for the love, the friendship and the wisdom they have shared with us and with many others, we will be eternally grateful. Aunt Bert's passing is painful indeed but we in the end are deprived only of her physical being: her presence remains. Further, we know that her spirit is in heaven with our Lord and that we can expect to be reunited with that spirit when our own bodies give way to the death which will free us from the burdens of this life. Can any lining be more silver than that? Point well taken Mom!
That time, to the big mall in St. Joseph, Missouri. Uncle Glenn and I fulfilled our functions as chauffeurs, patient observers, and silent bankers, and took vicarious pleasure in watching the 'girls' having fun. Surely that could not be the last such outing? Regrettably, it must be so.
My mother always enjoined me to look for the silver lining, and to seek the positive in any event, no matter how awful it may be. That's been good advice and in this sad event I have turned to it once again. Not much effort is required to find the light when it comes to Uncle Glenn and Aunt Bert. Our lives have been considerably enriched by them. We have been made better people, and for the love, the friendship and the wisdom they have shared with us and with many others, we will be eternally grateful. Aunt Bert's passing is painful indeed but we in the end are deprived only of her physical being: her presence remains. Further, we know that her spirit is in heaven with our Lord and that we can expect to be reunited with that spirit when our own bodies give way to the death which will free us from the burdens of this life. Can any lining be more silver than that? Point well taken Mom!
I have one more thing to add as I close this piece. In actual fact it's the central
part of the story I am attempting to tell: the facet which
was the piece's catalyst and the source of the 'itch' I could not scratch which gave it form. In short,
I must thank Aunt Bert and Uncle Glenn for a gift they may not know they have given to
me, their nephew by virtue of marriage into the Merz clan.
In the aftermath of Aunt Bert's passing I could not know that those two had yet another gift for me. I only hope it's essence can be properly conveyed, for there is a feeling welling up in me (the
'itch') that demands expression but concurrently
defies reduction to the written word. Still, I feel I must make the attempt. I owe them that much and more.
There have been times since Thelma and I returned to our old home town when I have felt doing so was a mistake. It is sometimes too small; too parochial, and too lacking in the amenities which are found in city living. It also presents a proximity to the locals and to family members which, for one like I, who spent so many years at a distance, nudges in too close to my personal space. I am at heart a private person, and have at times, felt myself yearning for the anonymity which accompanies city living.
There have been times since Thelma and I returned to our old home town when I have felt doing so was a mistake. It is sometimes too small; too parochial, and too lacking in the amenities which are found in city living. It also presents a proximity to the locals and to family members which, for one like I, who spent so many years at a distance, nudges in too close to my personal space. I am at heart a private person, and have at times, felt myself yearning for the anonymity which accompanies city living.
I suppose I will always carry a bit of ambivalence when it comes to living in this small
town, but thanks to Aunt Bert and Uncle Glenn I no longer
struggle with the issue of whether or not moving here was a mistake. It surely was not.
We came firstly, to be present and to assist with caring for Thelma's mother. That we have done, and that we continue to do--and that in itself has been a worthwhile endeavor. We came as well to reconnect to some extent with our roots. To live in my parents' house and to once again renew our links to rural America and to family and friends who remained while we were away. That too has been done, and at this moment I not only am pleased with that fact, I am, at the core of my being, certain about it's 'rightness'. For that I must thank again my Aunt Bert and my� Uncle Glenn. Awareness of this certainty came to me in an unusual way and by means of an unusual event.
It is December here in South East Nebraska, and as is typical for the season, it is particularly gloomy and bleak, with leaden skies, a damp chill in the air, and winds rolling down from Canada to make it seem worse than the thermometer would suggest. No snow as yet but the threat of such hangs daily. Depressing conditions in the best of times and made worse in the face of recent events. That being so, I was in a bit of a funk on all accounts yesterday afternoon when Uncle Glenn called and asked if I would participate in a function once common in families but now virtually unknown.
He asked if I would assist in opening the grave where the inurned ashes of Aunt Bert would be deposited. Out in the old country churchyard cemetery where members of the Merz clan have been interred since first putting foot on Nebraska soil back in 1880. I agreed, and in short order I was in the car with Uncle Glenn, his son Ken Merz and another nephew, Larry Merz. We relieved the nervous tension which accompanied each of us as we rolled up and down the hilly and graveled road to the church with lots of chatter; mostly about relatives long gone and the good times and good memories which remained from them.
We came firstly, to be present and to assist with caring for Thelma's mother. That we have done, and that we continue to do--and that in itself has been a worthwhile endeavor. We came as well to reconnect to some extent with our roots. To live in my parents' house and to once again renew our links to rural America and to family and friends who remained while we were away. That too has been done, and at this moment I not only am pleased with that fact, I am, at the core of my being, certain about it's 'rightness'. For that I must thank again my Aunt Bert and my� Uncle Glenn. Awareness of this certainty came to me in an unusual way and by means of an unusual event.
It is December here in South East Nebraska, and as is typical for the season, it is particularly gloomy and bleak, with leaden skies, a damp chill in the air, and winds rolling down from Canada to make it seem worse than the thermometer would suggest. No snow as yet but the threat of such hangs daily. Depressing conditions in the best of times and made worse in the face of recent events. That being so, I was in a bit of a funk on all accounts yesterday afternoon when Uncle Glenn called and asked if I would participate in a function once common in families but now virtually unknown.
He asked if I would assist in opening the grave where the inurned ashes of Aunt Bert would be deposited. Out in the old country churchyard cemetery where members of the Merz clan have been interred since first putting foot on Nebraska soil back in 1880. I agreed, and in short order I was in the car with Uncle Glenn, his son Ken Merz and another nephew, Larry Merz. We relieved the nervous tension which accompanied each of us as we rolled up and down the hilly and graveled road to the church with lots of chatter; mostly about relatives long gone and the good times and good memories which remained from them.
Now comes the difficult part. We shortly arrived at St. Peter's
and parked the vehicle at the cemetery's edge. It lies
adjacent to that elegantly simple white-framed church our German forebears erected in 1869. As we exited the vehicle and unloaded our digging tools I got a little constricted feeling
in my throat. It wasn't something I was acutely aware
of because it was veiled by so many internal emotions. I think my
companions felt similarly. At least the chatter which had been so present during the ride to the cemetery fell off amongst us as we approached the grave site. The unpleasant chore was at hand I thought, and with few words work began, with nephew Larry Merz removing the sod with his short-handled spade. The next step was my own. I began to dig using an old-fashioned manually-operated auger. As I made the first few turns and saw that rich black loamy soil rising into the auger's cavity, I suddenly had a great sense of peace. I looked at the array of tombstones in the cemetery; I looked at the old church where I and so many family members have been married and I could almost hear the peal of the steeple bell. Finally, I looked over the bleak fields of winter and the barren trees off towards the Missouri River some two miles distant, but saw nothing depressing. I saw instead, the promise of fertility that black soil brings in the Spring; I saw instead the promise of the resurrection which I know is my due, and on a deeper level I felt in my gut the importance of roots, the value of family and the fullness of love. I was at that moment and I remain, richly blessed. I am deeply grateful for that poignant revelation.
companions felt similarly. At least the chatter which had been so present during the ride to the cemetery fell off amongst us as we approached the grave site. The unpleasant chore was at hand I thought, and with few words work began, with nephew Larry Merz removing the sod with his short-handled spade. The next step was my own. I began to dig using an old-fashioned manually-operated auger. As I made the first few turns and saw that rich black loamy soil rising into the auger's cavity, I suddenly had a great sense of peace. I looked at the array of tombstones in the cemetery; I looked at the old church where I and so many family members have been married and I could almost hear the peal of the steeple bell. Finally, I looked over the bleak fields of winter and the barren trees off towards the Missouri River some two miles distant, but saw nothing depressing. I saw instead, the promise of fertility that black soil brings in the Spring; I saw instead the promise of the resurrection which I know is my due, and on a deeper level I felt in my gut the importance of roots, the value of family and the fullness of love. I was at that moment and I remain, richly blessed. I am deeply grateful for that poignant revelation.
Thanks Aunt Bert--------Thanks Uncle Glenn--------I love you both!
David J. Lunsford
5 December 2003
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