M IS FOR MESSAGE

Mom and the four of us girls had so very carefully selected your headstone. It was to be a joint one, with Mom's name engraved next to yours for when her time here would be finished. The stone had to be perfect. The words on it just so. And the dogwood blossom carvings simple yet elegant. We remembered how much you loved those blossoming dogwood trees on each side of the walkway to your home. As we finalized our selection, our hearts were heavy; our grief palpable.

Time passed, and we finally received word that your headstone was completed. It had been put in its place at the cemetery. The others went together to view it there. I remained at home. I was afraid. Afraid of many things. If I looked at your stone, I would realize you were truly gone. Did I want to accept that? Could I? And what if I cried? I would not want to look the fool to any passersby. I surely did not want Mom and my sisters to see me fall apart. You know that I was the "strong" one. The one who tried desperately to keep their spirits up during your illness and subsequent passing. I kept more to myself after you left us. I do not think I knew I was doing that, but many noticed it. It has only been in the past year or so that they have told me they could see me withdrawing from all who loved you and were loved by you.

One day, on the spur of the moment, I decided I would go to the cemetery alone. I wanted to see for myself if your headstone was perfect in every way. I easily remembered where your plot was located, since I had gone with Mom to help her choose it. I nervously stepped out of my car, and I could see your marker from there. I walked toward it, and I crumbled after I reached it. My fingertips traced your name, while I broke down and sobbed mercilessly.

And just then, the bells from one of the cemetery chapels right near your spot began to ring in a joyous melody. Startled out of my overwhelming grief, I looked up at the small tower. I held each glorious note in my ears. Glancing at my watch, it struck me as an odd time for the bells to ring. There had been no burial service. It was not the top of the hour, or even any quarter of the hour. It was a seemingly random time for them to play in the nearly deserted cemetery.

After wiping away my tears and embracing your headstone, I returned to my car. During the drive back to my house, I could not help but think of those bells. I could not get them out of my mind. The song had been so incredibly beautiful.

Later that evening, I spoke to a friend of mine. I told her that I had visited you. And then, I mentioned the bells and the strange time they played. I hope I never forget what she said in reply,

"Your father saw you, and he said to God, 'Hey, that's my little girl down there. Play something pretty for her.' "

And with that, I shattered into a million pieces. I was so touched by her comment that I cried until I fell into a deep sleep.

Maybe you did say something like that to God. It would not surprise me. You were always the fixer and the helper and the thoughtful one. Always putting every single soul before yourself.

And even if you did not ask God for that favor, I still believe you had something to do with the playing of the bells.

You were, are, and always will be my hero. Oh, how I miss you.