God’s in a Box and So’s Your Momma

Move Over, Here Comes Big Love

Lately the circle of life has come way too close for comfort. In only a few weeks at least seven people I loved passed away, including my eighty-nine-year-old mother. Yesterday, I prepared her funeral urn for transport.

My grief resurfaced in the strangest way.

Mom died last October. We held a funeral and I volunteered to ship her urn to Arizona. But I’ve learned that one doesn’t simply slap a stamp on cremains and drop them in the mailbox. No, there’s an entire procedure with specific directions. And while I followed the instructions, I worried about Mom.

It’s no secret that my mother was a handful—even her own physician said so. In life, Mom was drop-dead gorgeous, but she could put you down with her glare and cut you out of the will if she was sufficiently aggravated. I don’t miss her cranky demands, but I grieve for her passing.

In my grief, I immediately purchased an expensive funeral urn in her favorite color, turquoise. The metal urn is tasteful and classic, if not classy. I believe she’d have picked it out herself. But I didn’t really think it through—once it’s interred, no one will ever again see the lovely expensive turquoise urn. It will go to a columbarium in Arizona where Mom lived most of her life. The whole idea gave me heartburn.

Shipping your own mom in a cardboard box to a different state sounded a little insensitive, too. Like others of the faith, Mom was always telling me never to put God in a box. And here she was, without so much as an airhole. But unless I wanted Mom to forever silently criticize me from her place in the corner of my living room, I had to get her mailed off.

Just as my mother was a complicated handful, the U.S. Postal Service included several layers in their special kit. I wrote the return address in at least three places, and affixed special packing tape that read, “Cremated Remains.”

First the urn was sealed into an oversized zippered bag the same way you’d preserve a large roast for the freezer. Next, I wound a roll of bubble wrap around the urn to cushion the journey and Mom went into the special cardboard box. I used half a roll of duct tape, making sure she couldn’t fall out or somehow bust out in transit. Last, I addressed the box in large block letters with a sturdy Sharpie pen. I thought briefly of cutting airholes in the sides but decided against it.

She was packed and ready for her big adventure, but uh-oh, I still needed help. You wouldn’t believe how much a cremated person weighs—and Mom had put on a few pounds in those last months. I can barely lift the package. I’ll have to have help, unless I’m willing to ask a postal clerk if they’d mind hefting my mother over their shoulder and pitching her into the outgoing mail bin.

And what about all those questions they always ask at the post office? Does your package contain any of the following, blah blah blah. Hmm. Mom wasn’t fragile but she could be explosive in more ways than one. Many times, I’ve wondered if my mother was really dangerous or just someone who struggled with depression, alcohol and was broken for most of her life.

Maybe her God was always in a box so small that she never found enough love.

Before I shut the box, I added more love to every layer of bubble wrap, every inch of tape, every stroke of Sharpie pen. I wanted love to burst out of every tiny space and to follow Mom all the way to her final resting place.

For now, Mom still occupies her living room corner. Even without airholes, she’s probably trying to tell me what to do. But for once, I put God in a box and it’s OK. Mom will just need to scoot over and soak up all God’s abundant love.