BY BUZ SCHULTZ
My wife Ann passed away in March of 2015 from ovarian cancer. She had asked that her ashes be cast into a stream in the park near our home. She showed us exactly where she wanted this done; it was a spot in the stream that she visited alone with greater frequency in the final months of her life. She worshipped there. She communed with nature and prayed. She loved to see God’s hand in the trees, flowers, and the stream. I went with her a couple times, and Ann had taught me to stop, be still, and listen. I really came to appreciate the beauty of the sound of the babble of that stream.
Shortly after Ann passed away, the family had a wonderful ceremony at the stream. On an absolutely gorgeous spring day, all of Ann’s sisters, nephews and nieces gathered at the stream. A minister presided, and each of us took a turn taking a handful of Ann’s ashes
and placing them into the stream.
Over the weeks thereafter, I visited the stream frequently. And sure, I talked to Ann and to God. I listened to the babble of the stream.
When it rains, the stream becomes larger and during hard rains, it overflows its banks, and all manner of debris is swept along. I came to the stream in June after a hard spring deluge. I was standing at the point at which Ann’s ashes had been spread. I turned to my left and to my surprise saw a cross in the stream. It had been formed by two pieces of bamboo that had been swept along in a recent storm. It was a nice reminder that she and God were still with us when we visit her place of worship.