The Gift

Nine years ago the unimaginable happened. My handsome 33-year-old son with beautiful blue eyes, dimples, and a gorgeous smile died unexpectedly. He was an incredible human, full of life, love, passion, and empathy. How is this possible? It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It felt so exceedingly unfair, as unfair as things in life go. No parent can ever fathom losing a child, or imagine the hopelessness of outliving their child, no matter what the child’s age. There is no “worst part” when you lose a child. It is all pain, misery, anguish, and torture. As for me, nothing and no one could have prepared me for this inconceivable loss. The loss of a child is likely the greatest tragedy on earth. Believe me when I say the pain was excruciating. And this kind of trauma doesn’t go away. My world stopped, but for others the world kept turning. How am I supposed to move forward with a life I didn’t choose, with a loss I thought I couldn’t live without? The thing about losing someone is that it doesn’t happen just once. It happens every time you do something great you wish they could see, every time you’re stuck and need their advice. Or every time you fail. It erodes your sense of normal, and what grows back is decidedly not normal, and yet you still have to figure out how to trudge forward.  

My wonderful son left this earth in 2014 during Spring fishing season. Four people who went fishing were reported missing after midnight. On Thursday, April 17^th, the first two bodies were recovered shortly after the boat was found capsized. The boater and my son, Andrew, sunk to the bottom of Lake Erie. When the weather eventually warmed up, the boater’s body surfaced, 20-days later. Andy’s body was the last to be found—22-days later.   

I still remember the morbid question the funeral home director asked. “Did your son want to be buried or cremated?” What? That was never a question I ever asked my son. We never discussed the subject and so therefore we had no legal documentation of what Andy would have wanted done with his body. This is not how it was supposed to be. I lost the years of promise that I had looked forward to. Andy was supposed to settle down, get married, have children, and grow his business.  Burial or cremation…was the dilemma. And I had to make a decision.

My son lived in Ohio and I in Florida. If I had chosen burial, I wasn’t sure which state to bury him. After all, if I buried him in Ohio where he was born and raised, I would seldom get a chance to visit his gravesite. If I buried him in Florida, none of his lifelong friends would visit the gravesite. Finally, after I spoke with my other son and friends, I decided on cremation.  

When it came to decide on what to do with the ashes, I decided to divide the ashes into three. One-third of my son’s ashes would go with his fishing buddies so they could scatter his ashes in Lake Erie, one of Andy’s favorite places to fish. Another third would go with his hunting buddies. Those hunting pals could sprinkle little bits of his ashes in the deer stalking area he loved. The last of my son’s ashes could be scattered possibility on a beach somewhere in Florida. However, after I brought his ashes home with me, I haven’t been able to let them go. Part of me thinks the ashes that I’ve kept, are the remnants of his generous heart and gorgeous smile. I have this belief that these ashes are the last physical part of my son. So, it makes sense of why I don’t want to let them go.   

Over the years since Andy left me, I’ve been in the presence of a Cardinal many times: in my yard, outside my vehicle, next to a poolside while on an out-of-state vacation, and one hovering outside a cruise-ship window in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. That must be my son checking in on me. No matter where I go in life my son gives me a sign that he’ll always be right here with me. But during those spontaneous Cardinal visits, my son has never given me any signs of what I should do with his ashes.   

A few months ago, I received this gorgeous handcrafted wooden box, with a clean, simple elegance from John Fink. (I met John through my husband, Paul. Paul and John were childhood friends and later on became co-workers on the railroad.) I cried when I opened the gift that arrived in the mail. It’s one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. Not only is the craftsmanship masterfully done, this beautiful box was designed to store Andy’s ashes.  

The black walnut wood grain showcases one-of-a-kind patterns formed over a tree’s long lifetime of struggles and triumphs. John started making the box with a piece of beautiful black walnut. After cutting the box sides, he then cut the 45-degree corners to form the box using a miter saw. Next John glued the box together with the bottom attached. His wife, Jo, took progress pictures along the way. Afterwards John sanded the box and its lid. After sanding, John stained the box with black walnut. He wiped off any excess. After staining, John applied 3 coats of polyurethane varnish.

The talented woodworker suggested ways he could finish the top of the box. John knew the lid would be the star of the show. He proposed applying a favorite photograph of Andy to the cover. John also suggested he could stencil something unique to the lid. He was willing to create anything I wanted. After I gave it some serious thought, I decided I’d like to see one of Andy’s favorite symbols: a bonefish. John used a scroll saw to meticulously cut out a wood sculpture of a bonefish skeleton.  

This timeless memorial made from nature is a beautiful tribute that I’ll treasure forever. Nothing says I love you like a handmade gift, created with your heart and your own two hands. I just love how much work and care that went into this box. This gift is one-a-kind piece of art. The thoughtfulness, time, and attention to detail overwhelmed me. I’m beyond grateful and so thankful to you John and you Jo for your workmanship, generosity, and love.