Letting Go and Overgrown Rose Bushes

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I pick up my dad’s Navy uniform. I feel the scratchy wool and see the contrast of white stars on dark blue. It’s heavier than it looks and I wonder how he managed in the Hawaiian humidity. I study a picture of him in uniform, standing on the shore in front of a Navy ship. He is looking at the camera. Full of the future. 

I’ve had lots of time to think about my dad and mom as my sister and I begin the work of condensing the contents of their lives into a single room. But that’s not entirely accurate because the contents will actually be spread across the country.

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My mom’s been gone for more than a decade and my dad moved to an assisted living facility. My dad’s navigating the transition like he navigated all the transitions of his life: Idaho farm boy, Canadian missionary, Navy draft pick, university student, graduate student, biochemistry professor, food industry leader, business owner; all while nurturing a wife and flotilla of children. Change is hard.

For my sister and me, it’s time to simplify the stuff of two lifetimes. If you’re sentimental like me — even if you’re not — it’s an emotional task. Working together, the two of us share moments of reverence, laughter, sadness, resolve and well, I don’t have words for all of the feelings.

Going through their belongings gives me perspective. I see my parents as children, young adults and newlyweds – before I knew them. I understand what is important to them by what they kept and how they kept it. The Navy uniform had been cleaned and hung in a closet. Family pictures and writings are carefully preserved in binders. Kitchen pots are stained or scratched with daily use. Files contain important papers and grocery receipts. 

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My sister and I uncover treasures. For instance, my aunt gave me a quilt years ago. I thought I knew which grandma made it, but I wasn’t sure. In one of the binders, I find a picture of the quilt along with the name of my great grandmother. 

In another binder, I find a talk my dad delivered at the funeral of a 5-year-old boy, the precious son of dear family friends. His sister and I have been best friends since we were both 6. 

I texted her a copy of the talk, which documented stories and memories of her little brother. Some she had never heard. 

I texted pictures of their parents to cousins and childhood friends. Some they had never seen. 

I texted pictures to our brothers. Some brought tender memories. Others made us laugh for days. 

It’s hard to know what will tap the feelings. It may be a picture, an article of clothing, a dish, a quilt, or a piece of furniture. I wonder what will stick with my kids; each is a minimalist. 

I hold each item, Marie Kondo style, and consider its past and future. People, not things. But things can conjure a person, a memory, a feeling. So there’s the difficulty.  

On a day my sister and I were in the middle of it all, we pick up salads and eat at the patio table, surrounded by our mom’s overgrown rose bushes. The bushes that were heavy with blooms when she was called home. And I think that could be the title of a blog: Overgrown Rose Bushes. They’re kind of a mess, but still, there are hundreds of blooms. I notice God’s colors. Even the roses that have dried neutral petals next to soft, colorful ones are a study in color coordination. 

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Life is like that. A big mix. Navy uniforms and roses. Mess and beauty. Things and people. Feelings of home and belonging. Homecomings and homegoings. Moving from branch to trunk in a family tree.

I bite into a salted caramel pecan praline cupcake – the kind my mom would have chosen – and see the mountains she loved above the rose bushes. My sister and I decide to take my dad for ice cream after dinner.

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Later in bed words jumble in my head and feelings collide in my heart. My body is spent. I give in. I stop holding up my head and holding in my heart. I have to write. Because that’s how I feel, deal, heal.

I reread this post and it doesn’t seem complete or focused. Maybe that’s because it isn’t. There is more to come. More life. More sorting. More feeling. More dealing. More healing. Maybe it’s okay and this is enough for now.