remembrance

It was early Saturday, a bitter cold December morning. Todd, Sammi, Micah, and I headed South on I-94 in a black pickup truck. We drank our coffee (Micah had milk) from our Yetis and ate homemade cherry coffee cake with plastic forks, wiping our hands and mouths with white paper towels. We gasped at the yellow and orange sun dogs in the sky, like hanging portals inviting us to come into the warm light, as we made our three-hour journey to the small town of Olivia, MN.

This was our second family funeral in three months. Today we would say goodbye to my sister, Heidi’s, husband, Dan. He passed away in his sleep last week, a heart attack taking him instantly at 67 years old.

“What?” Todd texted me back after I relayed the news my brother, Pete, had called me with that morning, the day before Thanksgiving. His shock was palpable, a goodbye come too soon for all of us.

We’d just spent over a week with Dan and Heidi in early September. The conversation, his laughter, his warmth—it was all still fresh in our minds. How can he be gone? Wasn’t he just handing me a box of sub sandwiches to help me feed everyone the week of Dad’s funeral? Weren’t we just dining al fresco at the clubhouse nearby with that talented live band playing 70s and 80s songs? It had cheered us up that evening, the day after Dad died.

Can it be said that a funeral was beautiful? The Catholic church, with its gorgeous murals, the rituals, the music. Three eulogies—my sister, his daughter, a friend—heartwarming accounts of a life lived fully and well. A man that had served his country in the Air Force, who loved going to concerts, music festivals, and car shows, a man that would drop everything to be with family.

Memories filled my mind: Micah and I during our pandemic summer visit, Dan taking us on a pontoon ride, having dinner and enjoying an old fashioned, a cocktail I’d never tried, on the deck of the quaint lakeside restaurant, Micah playing with Casey, their Norwegian Elkhound puppy, Dan giving Micah a fast ride in his vintage white corvette.

Afterward, we gathered with family and friends at the American Legion, to have lunch and share stories, mostly funny recollections, a roast of sorts. But Dan, with his wonderful sense of humor, would have enjoyed it most of all. Of course, Micah was in the mix, taking the microphone and saying a few words: He loved his Uncle Dan, pointed out a picture of the two of them on one of the memory boards, compared him with Uncle Ben, a character from a Spiderman movie. Earlier, I saw him standing by the casket, taking a long look. What do you understand about death, my son? Have we explained it well enough? Do you know deep in your heart that this isn’t the end?

Is it strange to say that there is good that can come from going to funerals? Talking with family, even the exes of my siblings, was wonderful and healing. There was a sense of caring, of love being shown.

We needed to leave mid-afternoon, to get home to three dogs waiting for their evening meal.

On Sunday, there would be church, there would be meals to prep for the busy week ahead, a movie Micah and I would go to, a Christmas tree to be decorated. We took these moments and lived them joyfully, thankfully, lovingly, wanting to follow Dan’s example.

It isn’t always easy. Life isn’t always easy. But, for you, Dan, we will continue to try.

In honor of you, we will do our best.