Last weekend we laid my dad to rest. When it came to death, Dad was a practical man: He wasn’t religious himself, and he didn’t want us to spend a lot of money or effort on a funeral. Sorting through his preferences and our own beliefs wasn’t completely straightforward, but I believe Mom managed admirably.

In Dad’s final months, he had shared with her that Psalm 23 was a favorite passage that his Little Grandma used to read to him when he was little. We all prayed it over him, and for him, many times during the final weeks of his life. During the burial, the line that stuck out most to me was, “He makes me lie down in green pastures.”

I believe the Lord has shepherded Dad, and all of us, well these past months.

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It was March in Michigan, clear and cold, with blue skies and sunshine despite the skiff of wet snow on the cemetery grass and more headed our way from the west. Mom was there, of course. My sister Jill, her husband Rusty, and two of their kids, Toby and Stella, were on hand, as were Jodi and me and our youngest, Lily. Father Tom was there, too, and a good friend named Bob, who works for both the parish and the local funeral home.

Dad’s earthly remains were in a beautiful wooden box, a World War I-era ammo box he had refinished years before, with a strong hinge and latch—the kind of box a man like Dad would want if we weren’t just going to put him in the ground. We also enclosed a few special items, including the photo of my mom that was always in his wallet and his first dial calipers from his shop.

I carried the box to spot in the St. Michael cemetery where Bob had cut a neat rectangle of sod away, then scooped out a few cubic feet of soil. The place is along the back of the cemetery, next to the woven-wire fence around the neighboring pasture and not far from a large pine. Though only the March breeze sounded that afternoon, you could imagine the singing of birds and the lowing of cattle. It is a lovely spot.

Father Tom led us through the burial rite. One of the beautiful things about the Church is that they have something written for every occasion. The readings and prayers were perfect, despite Father not really knowing my dad.

“Would anyone else like to say a few words?” he asked the family.

Mom read Psalm 23 in a strong voice, not faltering until the final verse, “and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” One by one we prayed aloud or said our goodbyes, then I stooped to set the stout box in the ground.

Such a small parcel, yet so heavy!

I was not reluctant, but I paused, hunkering beside the hole, holding all that was left of my father this side of eternity. Remember you are dust and unto dust you shall return.

“So much of who I am is you,” I said softly. “I miss you.”

I set the box squarely in the center of the hole, then stood, scooped a handful of earth, and let it fall on top of the lid. “Rest well, Dad,” I said.

One by one the others did the same. Then we stood a moment, breathed, looked at each other, and began to move back toward the paved lane that looped around the other graves.

He was at peace, and so were we.

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I have often shared that, in prayer, I have had great assurance that Dad is well in God’s hands, so while I continue to pray for his soul, I don’t worry about his eternity. The next morning, Mom, Jodi, Lily, and I came to Palm Sunday Mass. I couldn’t help but think about all the times we wished Dad had been at church with us over the years. I couldn’t help but look toward the windows on my left, overlooking the cemetery and green fields, and smiling that he was right there beside us.

And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.