09/09/2026
I attended the funeral of a woman who had spent her childhood in this old house we now call home. She was the granddaughter of the couple who first homesteaded this quarter—the same people who planted the enormous cottonwood trees that still surround the property. After building their home, they added a chicken house, a garage for their Model T, and a small barn. Everything except that old barn is still standing.
She was in her eighties when she passed away. After a long illness, when her suffering was finally over, her husband had promised her that he would take her home.
That is how I came to sit, on behalf of our family, at her memorial service. There were only a handful of people there to witness the end of a life that had been so full.
The service took place in a little chapel. There was no slideshow of photographs, no long eulogy telling us about the things she had accomplished, the people she had loved, the causes that mattered to her, or the passions that had shaped her life.
When the service ended, the funeral director looked around for a few strong men to help carry the casket out to the waiting hearse.
And just like that, it was finished.
I noticed several sad faces around me, faces that seemed to say what none of us wanted to admit.
Time does not wait.
We only have a limited number of days to do the things we dream about doing.
Nobody will remember us because we kept a spotless house, maintained a perfect yard, or balanced every account down to the last penny.
A generation or two from now, there is a good chance that almost nobody will remember our names at all.
I stood in the parking lot feeling strangely shaken and more than ready to go when one of the family members approached me.
Because so few people had attended the service, he asked if I would join the family for dinner afterward.
It was such a kind, humble and vulnerable invitation that I could only nod and say yes.
I followed the small group to a local restaurant. The grieving husband had reserved a banquet room and ordered a beautiful prime rib dinner for seventy-five people.
He had imagined that the community would come together to remember his wife. He believed there were still many families in the area who remembered her family and would gladly put aside their chores for an afternoon to say goodbye to someone who had meant so much to him.
But he had been wrong.
Walking into that banquet room was heartbreaking.
There were tables beautifully prepared. Staff members stood ready to serve the meal. There were rows of empty chairs and a silence that seemed almost too heavy to bear.
Somehow, I ended up sitting beside her husband at dinner, even though I barely knew him or his family.
Our only real connection was that old house and the piece of land his family had sold to Mike and me more than thirty years ago, when we were young and just beginning our own lives.
As I sat there, I thought about what a beautiful thing it was that their family had lived their lives there, then eventually welcomed newcomers onto the land—people who would put down roots of their own.
We had loved the old house.
We had cared for the land.
We had improved the grass.
We had planted more trees for people we would probably never meet.
Quietly, I mentioned this to the people sitting around the table.
“Is the old screen door still on the back porch?” an elderly aunt suddenly asked.
“We used to let that thing bang over and over when we ran in and out!”
And with those words, something changed.
The memories began pouring out.
People started laughing.
I learned who had planted the rows and rows of tiny trees that had eventually grown into enormous giants, now so old that many were sadly nearing the end of their lives.
“That was before the Great War, you know!”
I listened.
I learned how the old house had been built, where the materials had come from, how they had been hauled by team and wagon, and who had designed the floor plan.
I heard about the annual garden parties that always took place when the circle of pink peonies bloomed—the same peonies that still grow here today in the native grass lawn.
As the stories continued, I noticed that our host slowly stopped wiping his eyes.
The tears still came, but he no longer apologized for them.
At one point, I put my hand gently on his arm.
“As a wife,” I told him, “I can’t imagine anything sadder than having my husband standing at my funeral and not being moved to tears. How terrible would it be if he didn’t miss me terribly?”
He smiled.
He took a shaky breath.
And then he continued telling us about her.
I asked how they had first met.
They had both been young, newly away from home and leaving farm life behind for the city. They had gone from homes without electricity, where chores were done by lantern light, to a world of dances, jiving music, cherry Cokes, saddle shoes and ponytails.
They were students.
They were both homesick.
And they were both stepping into the great adventure of adulthood.
He had fallen for her at first sight.
Their love lasted more than sixty years.
She had been the life of every gathering. She was an excellent cook and a talented gardener. She had been a registered nurse and a safe haven for every stray cat that happened to cross her path.
She loved dancing.
She loved laughing.
She was kind, good-hearted and completely down-to-earth.
As I listened to everyone describe her, I found myself thinking that she would have been a wonderful friend.
Eventually, I stood from the table. It was getting late, and I knew the family was exhausted from such a difficult day.
Before I left, her husband thanked me.
“This has been a surprising end to a very hard day,” he said.
All because I had taken the time to come.
All because I had swallowed my shyness, asked about his memories and simply listened as though I cared.
That small act had given his broken heart a little comfort for a while.
And he was grateful.
It was a lesson I will never forget.
The next time I wonder whether I should go, whether I should make the effort, whether my presence might actually matter, I hope I remember that day.
The answer is yes.
Go.
Make the effort.
Ask the question.
Sit at the table.
Listen to the stories.
Because sometimes, something that feels small to us can mean more to someone else than we will ever know.
The older I get, the more I believe that the right answer to many of life’s questions is simply:
Yes.
Rest well, Doreen.
You made a difference.
And you will be missed. ❤️
