Over the last few weeks, my sister and I have gone through our parents’ home—the one where we grew up from the time I was one year old. As we process the last few years of their lives, I can’t help but think about the bigger things of our faith, particularly what happens when we die.

I know not everyone has good memories of their family, and the loss of a parent or sibling may or may not carry much emotional significance. But we are a close family, and losing them was not easy.

The House

As we’ve gone through their house, we have laughed, cried, retold stories of days long past, and at times just savored being among their favorite possessions. These inanimate objects seem to hold a small piece of their fire, their humor, their joy—and sometimes maybe even a tiny piece of their soul.

Neither of our families really shares their eclectic sense of style or has enough space to bring so many of these objects home to live with us as constant physical reminders of Mom and Dad or the memories they evoke.

I imagine most people struggle with the same things we are right now. How do we hold on to them? How do we keep their spirit alive in a world that seems just a little bit smaller, a little less bright, and a little less grand without them?

I have discovered that people who grieve seem to find each other, or at least are more likely to notice others who bear the same marks of loss. You feel their pain because it is so much like your own. Looks communicate what words cannot, and compassion oozes out of your pores because you share the same experience.

My faith tells me that the life Christ offers us is good—not just life after we die, but life right now. I’ve focused on that life in the here and now for most of my life, but losing people you care about can’t help but make you think more intently about the next one. And while I hope to have many more years in the here and now, I can’t help but think a little more about the day my kids will go through this process. As my oldest daughter said one day after losing all four of her grandparents, “Dad, it’s almost like you’re next!” Ha!

I love that about our family—the jokes and sly smiles as we deal with hard things and remember there is still joy and much to experience in this good life that a good God has given us. That came from Mom and Dad, too.

There are moments when I’m good with this next season and moments when I’m not. There are times I just want them back, as I find myself muttering under my breath or in my head, “I love you, Mom and Dad.”

Sometimes I take the existential plunge and think about my own mortality and the fact that I’m not ready—and don’t think I’ll ever be. I don’t want this life to end or my kids, whom I love so completely, to have to do life without me or their mom. But that day will come, hopefully later rather than sooner.

The Ashes

I had an epiphany today as I watched another family do a version of what we have done to remember such significant figures in our lives—celebrate them and actively remember them.

Our parents, for some reason, wanted to be cremated. I don’t know why. It wasn’t for a religious reason, I don’t think. More likely it was practical—they didn’t want to be staged in an open casket, making a hard moment even harder. And if you know my dad, it’s way cheaper, too. Dad always loved a bargain, whether it was an early bird special at the beach or a two-for-one cremation special before entering the pearly gates.

Apparently, when you choose this route, you can purchase any number of products to put some of the ashes in—necklaces, rings, bracelets—so you can carry them with you always. Interestingly, you can also place them in a knife or even grow a tree with them. If these products exist, there must be a market for them, and I guess a lot of people choose this option—but not me. That’s just weird. As my sister said after taking a few ashes with her, “Well, Mom’s been riding around with me in the glove box. I guess we should do something with them.”

As you can imagine, she shares our sense of humor.

So we did. We took their ashes to one of their favorite vacation destinations—the beach—and released them just before the next wave lapped them into the ocean. Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.

We went to their favorite restaurant, though we didn’t make it for the early bird special. I’m sure Dad was pleased we went but not happy about not being early.

To this day, we still frequent their favorite places, and at their favorite restaurants, we order their favorite appetizers.

The Legacy

We also picked out meaningful items from their home to carry with us—things that fit our lives and hold special memories: a curio box, a Bible with their handwritten notes, a knife Dad carried, a favorite pig Mom collected that we all agreed had the same goofy grin as her favorite person in the whole world besides Jesus—my dad. (I don’t know why she wanted to collect pig figurines, by the way. Is that a real thing?)

In the last years of my parents’ lives, I know they were growing tired. They welcomed death because they were tired of fighting it. They didn’t want to leave us, but they desperately wanted to be with Jesus—and each other, whatever that looks like—in the next life.

Death seems like such a thief. It takes precious people from us that we would rather have forever. But I have seen loved one after loved one welcome it in the same way.

To get to the point I wanted to make: losing people you love is tough, but it is a cycle of life that reminds you to treasure every breath you have. This life is a good one, no matter what is happening around you. God is good. You are good. Life is good. And the people you live your life with are a gift.

My parents passed on their love of life, their sense of humor, and their conviction that God is real and that Jesus really does save people into something beautiful. They taught us to smile and laugh at ourselves—even losing our ability to breathe at times because we would get so tickled. They worked hard and shared generously with others who didn’t have a lot.

They loved to eat out and go to movies, which Dad would normally sleep through—something I’ve recently started doing myself. They shopped for interesting finds and visited beautiful places together, always remembering to treasure each other.

My parents will live on in us because we learned to live life in many of the same ways they did. I’ve already passed some of these life lessons on to my kids, and they will pass them on to theirs one day.

Until Then

Death may be a thief, but living a full life with others you can fully love—now that is a legacy that will never be forgotten. Mom and Dad may not still be going to the same beach and eating at the same restaurants, but we will, and we will remember them. We’ll also share their sense of adventure by going to new and interesting places, trying new hobbies, and searching for the deeper meaning of walking with Jesus, just like they did.

Maybe we won’t live in this place forever, but who we are remains in the people we deeply love and who deeply loved us. Our spirit carries on, and that is a good thing. I don’t know what life looks like for Mom and Dad right now. My faith tells me they are with Jesus. One day I’ll see for myself.

Until then, I’m thankful for them—their memories, their character, and mostly their love. I hope I will pass that on to my kids just as they passed it on to me.