Unresolved grief is a terrible burden

That wears on your soul.

An aching that becomes ingrained in your life.

Its constant presence, an unwelcome companion.

It’s not until it’s unexpectedly lifted that you realize

The magnitude of its weight.

Love lives.

Douglas, sweet Douglas,

You were lost to us

Or so we thought.

But you had simply departed on your next adventure

Of sorts.

Leaving us behind.

For a while.

To catch up later.

You tried to tell us that you were leaving…

But we didn’t hear you.

 

What is it that you used to say?

“A river cannot run upstream.”

I’ll carry your water now, Douglas.

“What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”

Walk through the fire if we must.

And so we must.

We have.

We will.

Love is a beautiful thing.

Your shoes are still unfillable.

 

Born of utter and devastating grief…

It was Christmas Eve, 1986.

Straight to the airport from the morgue…

Your partner…

A death

A birth

That was your first night in Guatemala.

“The universe kinda took me by the hand thereafter.

An accidental tourist in the world,” you said.

No Douglas

You were no tourist.

Half your heart was left on that cold morgue table

But the other half

You planted in the Garden of Good

Guided, perhaps, by the Universe

Who knew the Good you would do.

The path from devastating tragedy

To unfillable shoes.

 

You never counted,

But I have.

Nearly 40 years later

And 100,000 children

Books, pencils, paper, crayons

Children in school

Who didn’t even have pencils

Before your broken heart

Came to save them.

An accidental Godfather

Perhaps.

 

Learning

Seeds

Opportunity

God love you Douglas.

For all of them

All the lives

All those seeds you sowed

Sprouting now in the Garden of Good

Spreading Love.

Every one of them

Carries a little bit of you.

 

But then

One Sunday morning,

Far away

In Guatemala,

Another world,

In the land of the Maya and children working the fields

And going to school

Learning to read and write

Something they had never done before

Your body failed you.

Failed all of us, actually

And failed “our kids.”

 

Those children to whom you offered the blessing of education

In a land where there was no other opportunity

To escape the death-grip of

Generational poverty.

 

That humid Sunday morning

After you had finished

Your school trip into the mountains

Through torrential rains

And “rumblers” as you called them

To downplay earthquakes,

So we wouldn’t worry,

Walter called you,

Then left to come home.

Fifteen minutes later

When he arrived,

You were already gone

To be with your patron saint,

Our Lady of Guadeloupe.

Your soul flying free.

 

How you must have suffered…

Watching those you love suffer

After your departure

At least, until we got to the honoring part

Of your transition.

 

Reality split into two.

Those you love in Guatemala,

And those you love here.

Notice I didn’t say loved

Because…

Love Lives.

 

Love is your legacy.

You did more with your grief-stricken heart

Planting seeds in the Garden of Good

Than most do

With an entire lifetime.

 

Your love will live forever

In the souls

Of thousands

Of eager children

Who carried their own boxes of books

And school supplies

Up the mountains

Into the school

When the terrain was even too steep

And muddy

For trucks

Or even donkeys.

They love you.

Love Lives.

 

They will pass the gift on.

Ripples

For generations

To come.

 

Your love lives

In the life of the young man

Who didn’t end it

Late that night

Just before you left for Guatemala

For the last time.

He called you instead

At 2:30 AM.

Lucky for him,

When Fate called upon you

You never failed to answer.

You fed him coffee

Tough love

And hope.

Love Lives.

 

He still carries your rosary.

That accidental rosary that I sent two of

And you hung on the mirror in your truck

Just hours before.

“It’s no accident, these things,” you said.

I hope he understands.

Somehow.

 

A few days later

You took the second rosary

To Guatemala

And hung it

Where it would forever remind

Those who look

With eyes that know

Of love

Your love

Her love

His love

 

Stateside, we heard that you were gone

Through the tendrils of a grapevine.

There was nothing more,

No matter how hard we tried.

Only stony silence.

“Died in Guatemala.

On Sunday.”

That was it

Gone

Just gone

 

But then, you knew you were going.

You told me that if that young man waited another 7 years to call

He’d have to talk to the rosary

Because you wouldn’t be here

Anymore.

I didn’t understand then

But I surely do now.

The last words we said to each other

Were

“Love You”

Love Lives.

 

But Love means it’s even more painful

To have no closure

No resolution

No comforting rituals to soften the blow

That kind of mourning

Lasts forever.

 

Where are you, Douglas?

Where is your body resting?

What happened?

Were you brought back to the states?

Away from the land and people you love so much?

There is no obituary.

Who honored your life?

Anyone?

Anyplace?

Where?

Who brought flowers?

Were there flowers?

You loved roses.

Who came to sit by you?

And where?

Did they light candles?

Was there a priest?

So many questions.

No answers

No avenue for answers

Doors slammed

Chained and bolted.

I couldn’t even find the doors

For all the locks.

Silence.

 

Human beings need answers.

Answers give grief and loss

A resting place.

 

The days ticked by

One

Two

Where’s Douglas…

…

Thanksgiving

Christmas

100 days

…

200 days

…

So many days

And nights

In the darkness of unanswered questions

Prayers

And tears.

Then there was the dream

That I didn’t understand

But would, soon.

 

Finally

261 days

An email titled

“Friend of Douglas Rhodenbaugh Reaching Out”

Thank God,

Oh, thank God.

She loved you, too

And had answers

 

You rest in Guatemala

And died in only a way Douglas could

Imprisoned in a paperwork purgatory

That not even the best lawyers could spring you from.

Retrospectively,

It’s all hilariously funny

But not then,

And not while you were missing

In our world

Of no answers.

 

As your body waited in an icy chamber

For two long months

You must have been laughing

But Walter surely wasn’t

The only jail we ever had to spring you from was the morgue

And we couldn’t even do that!

 

Mayan traditions don’t take into account modern-day inconveniences

Like paperwork delays.

There, those who have joined the Creator

Are honored with a wake

Wrapped in beautiful hand-woven textiles

Then, both joyfully

And tearfully

Committed to where

Earthly remains

Spend their afterlife.

 

You must have sent the dream,

Because when I saw the picture

I recognized it immediately.

Even from the other side

You were trying to comfort me

As I continued to grieve,

Relentlessly.

I had given up hope of ever knowing.

But now,

My heart is so full.

 

You are so loved, Douglas.

Your bones were lovingly claimed

As theirs.

They came by the hundreds

Walking down the mountain

In muddy ruts

To honor you.

The Godfather

As they called you,

The man sent by God

To save their children

Raised up out of grief.

Like a Phoenix.

 

Not all fathers have children

In the traditional way,

Some are sent by God

To Father.

That was you, Douglas.

Your ministry,

Although we never called it that

Because you were far too humble.

We’ll just call it the mission

That saved your broken heart, too

Their hearts

And hands

Made you a beautiful casket

Gleefully painted

Probably while shedding tears

And sharing stories

Until they laughed.

You would have loved that.

You were there

With them.

 

At your wake

Your “good” picture

Adorned the top

Of your casket,

In the suit you wore

To your students’ graduations

And celebrations

In the states.

 

Your hat

With a raincovering, of course,

Candles,

Flowers,

Rose,s

Always red roses

Your favorite.

And love

So much love

As they gathered

To sit beside you

One last time.

 

Your wake lasted two full days

And nights

And oh, the stories

Your handmade coffin was a little “small”

Given the unusual circumstances

We’ll just explain as

Your necessary cremation

Your own unique version of

“Fire Ceremony.”

 

Your irredeemable sense of humor…

You must have been howling.

Finally, those who love you

Were able to mourn

Properly

Joyfully

Tearfully

Telling Douglas stories

Reliving your antics

Regaled.

 

But buried in all of that

Was a commitment

Many commitments

Seared in hearts

To carry on the ministry

Of love

Of the Godfather.

Of your huge

Huge heart.

So maybe your burial

Was a commitment ceremony

Because

Love Lives.

 

The bells rang

The market fell silent

The community

Hundreds of people

Walked with you

Escorted you

Up the hill

To the cathedral

The church you loved

So very much.

A place of peaceful solitude

Madonnas and crosses

Where you received your final Mass

The Misa de Cenizas

Mass of the Ashes.

 

And then, so lovingly,

The third generation,

The grandson of one

Of the children you lifted up,

Carried you,

Their Godfather,

Who took a spiritual vow

To watch over them

And lift them up

All of them

Carried you to the place you chose.

 

Where you stepped out

Into the cobblestone street

Each dawn

As the market stirred,

And awakened,

The church bells

Ringing.

The resplendent cemetery

Up the hill

On the mountainside

Where memories live

And come alive.

 

“How beautiful” you said

Indeed – how beautiful.

Love lives here

Not solemnly

Not here

Joyfully

Bursting with riotous color.

 

Did you know

That one day

After a bit of a “delay”

Your bones would rest here?

In a borrowed crypt

A family member of a family you were not born to

One of your children

All grown up

Did you always know?

I think so.

You were a seer.

 

The children you saved will walk by and honor you

By lighting candles

And bringing flowers

Until they are old.

Then their children

And their children too

Who can read

And write

Because of you

Sweet Douglas,

Dear Sweet Douglas.

 

How ironic

And perfect

That your funeral was on Halloween

The day before All Saints Day

And the day before the Day of the Dead

Which is not morbid

But a day of beautiful remembrance

And celebration

And your birthday

How perfect!

 

This means that every year,

Without fail,

For as long as eternity lasts on earth,

You will have fresh flowers on your grave

In the borrowed crypt

Where your earthly remains remain

Turning to dust

Joining the stars

For those of us left behind

To visit

And mourn

And celebrate.

The only mourning that needs to be done is that you are gone too soon.

 

The only thing we leave behind

Is a legacy.

Your legacy

Half a heart

Sewn in the Garden of Good.

Decades later,

100,000 books and crayons

Opportunities

Roots

Love.

Love Lives.

 

But that’s not all

Your story doesn’t end here

That is not the final chapter…

 

There’s a vow.

 

Douglas,

When Curtis died, I carried his love

And his clothes with me

For thirty years

The ones his mother threw away.

I refused to allow him to be erased

To be pitched away like trash.

 

I grieved his too-early death so deeply.

A soul-wound.

Just five years after you left for Guatemala

But it would be another quarter-century before

Fate intertwined our lives

Wove them together.

 

As what I thought was

My final loving act for Curtis

Honoring his life,

And yours,

I sewed my love and his clothes into a quilt

With scraps of mine too

Transformed them into light

And love

For you.

 

A quilt that arrived when you needed it most

A box on your porch

When you were alone

An hour after a heart surgery diagnosis,

Allowing you to collapse into your quilt

Wrapped around you

In sheltering love.

That surgery

Gave us a few extra years

But not nearly enough.

 

Now your quilt has continued its own journey of love

Healing

Anonymously

Someplace

With someone we don’t know

Purchased at the auction of your worldly goods.

Maybe they were drawn to the colors

Maybe you directed them there

Because they needed healing

Comforting,

Or love.

The threads just keep connecting.

That’s what love does.

It’s alive,

It travels

Infecting others.

It is not ours to own

Or direct.

Love Lives.

 

I walked with Curtis,

Curtis walked with you

Weaving our lives together in the tapestry of our mission

Your ministry

Partners

For oh so many years.

I could not honor you at your wake

Because we were still in the darkness.

I could not carry your bones

Because we did not know.

I could not put flowers on your grave for your birthday.

I could not bear witness then,

But I’ll do better now.

 

The candle has been lit

From an eternal flame

Grief has shapeshifted

Into Love.

 

Now the scraps from Curtis’s clothes

Will join yours

And mine

In Care Quilts.

Our ministry continues

Just a little differently

Than either of us imagined.

 

Together,

We will lift them up.

We will tell them

Without words

That they matter

And are not forgotten.

Scattering acts of love.

Love Lives.

 

I will not fail you,

I will not look away

You never did,

The price was your life.

The reward is theirs.

Those 100,000 seeds

Now in the third generation

Spreading love

And hope

And redemption.

“What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”

 

Need knows no season

Right is right.

There are fights waiting to be fought

And won

One by tiny one

Each sprout a victory

And each victory a sprout,

A seed.

Somehow.

Ours is not to know how

Ours is only to sew

The seeds

Seeds of love

So that others may reap

And grow

In the Garden of Good.

I know you’re with me

I can feel your presence

And see your light

As we walk into the future

Spreading love

Together.

Boundless,

Endless,

Timeless.

I love you.

Love Lives.