ASHES TO ASHES [1-7-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: A Final Reflection on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—ASHES TO ASHES [1-7-25]

 

My sister-in-law has begun to scatter the cremains of my late brother, Jim, in the places important to him. That will include here in Bloomington, Indiana, when she comes for a memorial service for him. That has started me to thinking about where my ashes will go.

Yes, cremains is a good word, but I prefer ashes. You know, “ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” When I was a boy, I shook down the ashes in our Franklin Stove and carried them out back and scattered them on our garden. Yes, I prefer to think of my cremains as ashes.

That’s the main point of ashes-scattering, I think. Not what is actually done with them. That won’t matter to me then. But I think the deceased should get to enjoy thinking about where their ashes will go when they are dead.

Helen and I have asked our daughters to hold onto us until both of us are ashes, then mingle our ashes together for scattering. They have agreed.

Our original idea was that they would scatter us in the old woods on the Indiana University campus. That’s where we met and married. That’s where we bloomaranged to live out our years.

However, in addition to being illegal, I think--and I don’t want to think about my daughters spending time in jail--that’s not very practical. IU has the largest number of alums of any university, anywhere. If we all got scattered on campus, pretty soon the students would be walking to class ankle-deep in ashes.

I am, however, going to scatter us in those woods now. It’s pleasant to think about being there forever, about new students walking through the woods, hearing a whisper out of the ashes in the rustling leaves, “Go, Hoosiers…”

And I’ll scatter us in the woods behind Bob and Kathy’s house on Thunder Ridge, in Brown County. That was our spiritual home.

And some at Campground Cemetery, on Paradise Lake, near Mattoon, IL, where we once had a little weekend cottage.

And some more at Forsythe Church cemetery, down at Oakland City, on the graves of my parents.

There may be some left, so… there is a cemetery in Bloomington, IL. I don’t know its name, but I had a funeral there once. It was during the 6 years we lived in Normal-Bloomington, when I was campus minister at IL State U. Being a campus minister, I had a lot of weddings, but only one funeral. It was for an anonymous bum.

He was homeless, unknown, no identity, a traveling vagrant. Just happened to be in Bloomington when he died. Since he had no name, no family, no people, no church, the sheriff called the least reputable preacher he could think of to do the code-required, cheapest funeral possible.

I don’t remember what I was expecting, but not what I found. It was a sunny day. Pleasant. I was dressed in my dark suit and white shirt and tie, carrying my Book of Worship. The only other people there were the sheriff, in his uniform, and the undertaker, in his regular suit. The sheriff waved at a newly dug grave and said, “He’s over there.” He went back to his conversation with the undertaker. I wandered over to the grave of the unknown bum, by myself. I opened up my Book of Worship and read the entire liturgy.

I think I’ll just dump the rest of my ashes there.

John Robert McFarland

This seems to be a good column to finish up “reflections on faith and life.” I’m out of stories and ideas on which to reflect. But I need to keep on writing, for my own sanity. And you need to keep on reading, something, but probably not this column, for it will no longer be “reflections on faith and life.” It’s reasonable that you might get something worthwhile for your own life from “reflections.” That will no longer be a reasonable assumption. Now this column will be only the personal reminiscences of the author. [Yes, I know, that's pretty much true already.] I’d be delighted to have you read my reminiscences, but if you get anything worthwhile, it will be by accident, or because you have a special ability to discern wheat in chaff. So I’ll keep on posting, every third day or so. If you’ve decided you’ve had enough, thank you for reading.