A Painful and Beautiful Day (Part 1)

October 7, 2022. Exactly twenty-eight years ago on this very day, I asked my beloved Linda to marry me, and she said “yes”. We were engaged and committed our lives to one another, our hopes and dreams and unknown futures were forever intertwined. We were young and naive, crazy in love, and eager to embark on this new life together.. no matter what storms or twists of fate may come.

Twenty-eight years later to the day, we were about to walk up a dirt path into the woods to bury our beautiful son.

It was a Friday in early fall. Trees had only slightly begun to turn shades of yellow, orange, and red. Blue skies and a cool 72 degrees, seasoned with only a fading memory of summer humidity. Larkspur Conservation Nature Preserve is tucked into the hills of Northern Tennessee in a place called Taylor Hollow. A narrow road follows the curves of a small creek, passing several farm houses, barns, fields and gardens.

In order to arrive at this sacred place, we headed about an hour north of Nashville. Traffic was light as we neared our destination, especially as we pulled off the main roads and traveled deeper into the country. Although we had visited last week to select Isaac’s final resting space at Larkspur, my mind was elsewhere — still processing all that had happened over the previous 10 days.

Perhaps I was just exhausted, losing a bit of my usual driving acumen. Perhaps I had just forgotten my way, or perhaps I was not physically ready to face the reason for this drive. Probably, it was a mix of all the above. I missed my first turn onto the small road leading to Larkspur. A few minutes later, I missed another turn. Google Maps didn’t know what to do with me. Neither did I. But this moment was happening. My sweet, beloved bride and I were traveling to Larkspur to bury my son. This was real.

We found the small parking lot, already filled with a few of our closest friends on earth. The late morning sun shone brightly on the gravel lot, on the assortment of cars with their glinting windshields, on the assembly of loving faces welcoming us with hurting smiles and genuine compassion. Their love for Isaac was so deep. Their collective pain could be felt as we slowly pulled into a parking space. We met their embrace in the sunlight of that Friday morning. We hugged, we cried, and we breathed the clean forest air together.

John, the director of Larkspur, greeted us with such gentleness and warmth. He carefully gathered my guitar and some personal items, placing them in the back of a small rugged vehicle called a “Mule” to ferry them up to Isaac’s burial site. A volunteer and a staff member stood available for any assistance needed, both donning a wide-brimmed sun hat and a sweet disposition that communicated care for our family.

At 11am, John led our small group of friends and family to the trailhead. He said the walk to Isaac’s resting place would be about a quarter to a half mile, surrounded by indigenous trees and fauna, wildflowers, birds and little critters. These wooded acres were acquired by Larkspur as an enduring nature preserve for “natural burial”, free of any embalming chemicals, plastics, cement vaults and metal caskets. In cooperation with an adjacent nature area, these woods of Taylor Hollow were protected and would serve as a place to remember loved ones buried in these fields and forests for all time, preserving and nurturing the natural beauty of this place.

We began our walk up the small dirt path, couples holding hands or walking solo, quietly mindful of every step, looking up and around at the trees and leaves and branches. Some told stories of Isaac, discussed the beauty of the place, or silently pondered the how any of this moment was real.

John stopped several times to point out a unique plant, an interesting seed or flower or acorn along the forest floor. He was like a gentle botanist, a naturalist unhurried and fascinated by the intricacy and elegance found in every direction, communicating reverence in every step — for the hornets’ nest in the trees, for the spice leaves and berries and tiny ferns, for it all. At one point, John picked up a few nondescript cylindrical fossils left over from an ancient sea. “We have zillions of these up here… they’re everywhere,” he started with a measured southern accent. “These creatures were related to starfish and would wave their long tentacles on the sea bed when this whole region was underwater eons ago.”

We eventually came to a bend in the path that led to Isaac’s reserved space. John asked if my wife and I would like to lead our group the rest of the way. Linda and I clasped hands and slowely walked forward with trepidation and sadness toward a place every parent dreads, as well as with a deep understanding that Isaac’s path on this spinning planet would end here, in the rich soil of a Tennessee hollow.

Among the lush green undergrowth was a small area prepared for this day. Surrounded by sepia-colored photographs backlit by the sun, a semicircle of wooden benches, and safe within the careful watch of giant oaks, maples and a chorus of trees standing guard, Isaac’s casket welcomed our small cadre. The casket was a woven piece of art, made of willow and the soft color of a Palomino horse. Decorated with flowers and resting on a rustic stand, the casket was spotlighted by a midday sun that carefully shone through the mature trees onto this hidden area, welcoming us with warmth and understanding. And just steps away from the casket was the grave, something that caused an involuntary quiver within my being as we approached, arm in arm.

I ran my hand slowly along the texture of the casket, reminding me of wicker furniture, light and sturdy. The lid was closed, carefully prepared by thoughtful hands earlier in the day. Was my son really hidden in there? I knew it was just his shell, his body, for his spirit had long passed on… but still, everything felt so unreal, causing the mind to question everything: life, death, time, meaning, gravity.

We walked closer to the prepared grave, much larger than I had imagined and directly next to a small mountain of soil. Stepping up to the edge of the empty grave, unsure of what we would find, we were both struck with the most beautiful sight: a piece of art awaiting the arrival of our wonderful son. The floor of this earthen hole was covered with flowers, moss, and bark, arrayed in delicate and thoughtful care for Isaac. My wife and I wept and smiled and wept some more because we saw all of it, and all of it was perfect.

John quietly explained, “After learning more about Isaac and looking at all the photographs, it was clear that he loved nature and exploring the outdoors. The top part represents the sky and the heavens, touching the mountains that he loved to climb, with a waterfall and a river that empties into the sea.”

It was here, upon this bed of flowers, upon this piece of art, set with emotion and tears, that our sweet, sweet son would be buried and integrated into the fabric of this wondrous and beautiful place. We stood there at the foot of this grand and fitting and perfect hole, and considered it all… the path that led us to this point, the images and memories of Isaac’s childhood, the endless conversations and hopes for the future, the struggles, the joys, the adventures and laughter and ups and downs of 21 years of life with our son.

And taking it all in, a tiny fragment of “physical peace” began to solidify within my soul and my body. It was momentary and fleeting, like the perphreal glance of a shooting star at night, but I knew it was there. We were with each other, surrounded by our closest friends on earth. We were in pain, and in the midst of this pain and loss, this moment was right. This moment was good.

(To be continued)