Beth's husband came into town. He stood outside by the garage at the bottom of the steep hill. I wanted to tell him about the difficult times ahead and help him decide what to say to Beth.
He lifted his hand to his mouth.
"You don't know … how much it meant to me that you were there for Beth while I was out of town.”
"It was a privilege to be there to minister to everyone."
Uncle Jim chose cremation with no viewing. A cousin of Paul’s wanted to see Uncle Jim privately at the funeral home to say her goodbyes. Beth and I wanted to go, but Aunt June and her other daughter, Kimberly, did not.
"Mom, it was important for people to be able to see him if they wanted to," Beth said.
We met at the funeral home the following day to discuss the plans. A few family members and friends came—our gathering was informal.
Beth mentioned we did not need a casket to view his body—he was to be cremated. They did not want us to be surprised, so they said Uncle Jim was lying on a table with a sheet to his chest.
We entered the room and immediately saw him on a metal table in a small room with a few cabinets; they typically used this room to put makeup on the deceased. The atmosphere was sterile, but that did not deter us from sharing warm family memories.
We said our goodbyes, and I kissed him on the forehead. I wanted to be the last person to leave.
As I closed the door, I looked back and said, “I’ll see you in Heaven."
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