Ceremony
I have, to my great sorrow, become all too familiar this year with the Swedish traditions having to do with the death of a loved one.
When Björn's mother died last December, the funeral service a week or so later was my first introduction. The service itself was a beautiful thing, made even more meaningful by the fact that Björn's extremely talented nephew sang one of his grandmother's favorite songs.
At a Swedish funeral, the family members are each given a rose at the chapel. At the end of the service those roses are laid at the foot of the casket as the family members go up, one by one, to say their last goodbyes. Björn's mother was already in a fulltime care facility due to her very advanced Alzeimer's by the time I moved here. I visited her but I never got to meet her. My goodbye at her funeral was a promise to be the best woman I can be for her son.
At the funeral of Björn's father a few months later, my moment at the foot of that casket was much harder. Kjell was a dream of a father-in-law to me and I loved him with all my heart. It was far too early to have to stand there with a rose and say goodbye.
One thing that is quite different in Sweden from the US is the burial. In Sweden, cremation is the most common choice and the urn containing the ashes is stored at a chapel until the day the family decides to complete the ritual in a burial ceremony.
Björn's mother's burial had been scheduled for early June, but Kjell's untimely death just before that date resulted in a delay.
Yesterday, Björn and his brother took their turns lowering first their mother's ashes and then their father's, side-by-side, into the ground. It was heartbreaking.
But I have to say that I think the Swedes have the timing of these things right. A bit of a pause before the burial, a pause during which one begins to learn to live without the missing person - to experience life without them, to learn to keep going. And then a second ceremony: one without the same sense of shock and dismay, one with a gentler sorrow that has accepted that, yes, this thing has truly happened.
I cannot imagine that I will ever stop missing Kjell, but I am grateful for the Swedish ceremonies that give some measure of comfort in that loss.
When Björn's mother died last December, the funeral service a week or so later was my first introduction. The service itself was a beautiful thing, made even more meaningful by the fact that Björn's extremely talented nephew sang one of his grandmother's favorite songs.
At a Swedish funeral, the family members are each given a rose at the chapel. At the end of the service those roses are laid at the foot of the casket as the family members go up, one by one, to say their last goodbyes. Björn's mother was already in a fulltime care facility due to her very advanced Alzeimer's by the time I moved here. I visited her but I never got to meet her. My goodbye at her funeral was a promise to be the best woman I can be for her son.
At the funeral of Björn's father a few months later, my moment at the foot of that casket was much harder. Kjell was a dream of a father-in-law to me and I loved him with all my heart. It was far too early to have to stand there with a rose and say goodbye.
One thing that is quite different in Sweden from the US is the burial. In Sweden, cremation is the most common choice and the urn containing the ashes is stored at a chapel until the day the family decides to complete the ritual in a burial ceremony.
Björn's mother's burial had been scheduled for early June, but Kjell's untimely death just before that date resulted in a delay.
Yesterday, Björn and his brother took their turns lowering first their mother's ashes and then their father's, side-by-side, into the ground. It was heartbreaking.
But I have to say that I think the Swedes have the timing of these things right. A bit of a pause before the burial, a pause during which one begins to learn to live without the missing person - to experience life without them, to learn to keep going. And then a second ceremony: one without the same sense of shock and dismay, one with a gentler sorrow that has accepted that, yes, this thing has truly happened.
I cannot imagine that I will ever stop missing Kjell, but I am grateful for the Swedish ceremonies that give some measure of comfort in that loss.