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I don't remember which year was the last time I visited my father's grave. In my mind, he's not in the decaying bones that are surrounded by satin and wood and dirt. If I want to connect with him, I can meditate, read his letters or just think of him for that matter. To be honest, for a long time I thought the idea of visiting a grave was a bit silly. Worse really. I arrogantly believed folks who visit grave sites just don't know how to connect with their beloved departed in prayer and thought.
I felt differently yesterday. As I drove down Cherry Avenue, I was struck with an urge to buy flowers and place them on my dad's grave for Father's Day.
It was such a beautiful day. High 70's, clear skies. I'd just dropped off an aunt who attended one of her grandson's birthdays at my mom's place. The mood was all love, peace and joy. A quick stop at the florist. Unable to decide on the right flowers, I imagined myself asking my father's spirit to pick what he'd like and point it out. A bright, beautiful mix caught my attention.
Back in the car, I'm ready to head to the cemetery. A button pops on my dress as I shift a few things in the front seat. Back inside to fasten a safety pin and I'm off to the cemetery. Too bad it'd been so long I couldn't find the grave right away. Too bad, further still, that the information office closed at 5 and it was approaching the 6pm closing time. No problem, I'll just bring them on Sunday--that's Father's Day anyway.
Another beautiful morning. Turns out, though, that I simply remembered incorrectly. Perhaps I should be embarrassed to share that it took three staff to help me find it because I was so sure I knew exactly where it was supposed to be. Never mind that all my knowing had me walking in circles for better than twenty minutes. And, yes, there was that moment, when I wondered if someone had moved it!
I find it. I've got a journal with me. I can't figure out why I'm staying so long. At one point, I decide that communing with him has been wonderful, but that we're done, anything left to "discuss", I'll do at home in prayer, meditation or imagination. I rise, but I sit back down. I can't leave yet.
Looking back, it's odd that I couldn't find it the day before or for so long in the morning. I'd found it on my own before after long absences. Odd.
Minutes pass and I just sit and enjoy the many people at a distance bringing deceased fathers flowers. Various thoughts cross my mind. At some point, I think, "You know, with this entire summer ahead of me and no major plans, no summer school, no classes for myself, nothing but the time to discover, I want to invite my father's spirit to keep me company, advise, help me to uncover or discover that passionate purpose I talked about in the prior entry." I invite my father's spirit to help me make the most of this opportunity to create life newly.
Doubt me or not, but no kidding, a breeze blew across my face. I'd been out there sitting for at least forty minutes with no discernible breeze. I think the invitation, then there's a breeze. It didn't alarm or scare me, but I did question whether I just imagined the difference. And then wind blew a little stronger.
I thought, "That's weird. OK. I won't question it. That's real. That's my father."
The next thing I heard was, "Come on, Bubba."
No way. Though born Robert, he was affectionately called Bubba by family and close friends.
"Bubba."
I turn and look and a two-year old Samoan is being alternatively called and chased by an uncle or older brother. They'd just arrived a few moments earlier.
You tell me. What are the odds that at THAT moment, my father's nickname would be called.
But maybe I just see signs everywhere.
