It stopped being odd after the first couple times. Of course it did.
In fact, after the first couple times, my uncle Phil began to take a bit of joy in shining his brights on my father as he shoved the coffin, flowers sliding off the polished top, back into the truck. I wonder to this day if some other family has a story they tell of the time they saw what looked like a coffin sliding out of a Chevy Suburban on I-35 late one winter’s night.
But aside from the obvious, it really was very much a typical family road trip. People stopped too often to go to the bathroom. No one could agree as to what speed the caravan should be going, nor when would be a good time to stop to get something to eat. We eventually stopped at a roadside McDonald’s, my Uncle Phil ordering an extra cheeseburger for “our nana waiting in the car.”
The highway south through Oklahoma is a desolate one, a straight line running through occasional small towns and lonely gas stations. The skies stretched wide above us, and during our sporadic stops to push Nana back inside and re-close the back door of the Suburban, it seemed every star in the galaxy was witnessing our small clan on its sacred mission. Despite our determination to keep going, eventually we had to stop for the night. My father and aunt spent most of the night in the parking lot, making sure our grandmother continued to rest in peace undisturbed. (It was decided taking the coffin into the hotel was possibly a bridge too far, and eventually I stopped arguing over whether anyone would actually ever steal a truck with a coffin in the back.)
The next morning, as the sun rose above the frozen fields of southern Oklahoma, our family was gathering in Texas, awaiting our arrival, and things felt almost normal again. We had survived the worst of it and were eager to deliver our precious cargo and reunite with our people. It was time to get to the funeral.
The graveyard was in the middle of nowhere down a small dirt road, and in the last dregs of winter it was both peaceful and unbelievably barren. It was cold and quiet and a bit lonely there—even with all of us crowded under the big white tent someone had set up for us. It was a place for endings, is the best way I can describe it, and that hit me straight in the gut. While the preacher spoke about new beginnings and the hopeful future in which we would see my grandmother again, I couldn’t help but feel like this was a good-bye that was final.
I realized I wasn’t willing to hedge my bets on something coming along after this. I wasn’t going to assume I’d get more time in the afterlife with these crazy people—this amazing, heartfelt, determinedly insane group of people. I wasn’t going to get a second chance at this life. If I was lucky, someday people who loved me might be willing to drive across the plains through a cold winter’s night to deliver my body to the place they felt it should rest. If I was lucky. How lovely to think this life might all be just a practice run, but I was no longer able to take that gamble.
Standing in that cold, wind-blown cemetery, my beliefs were cemented. I wanted—needed—to live my life believing this was my one and only shot, my chance to make good decisions and fulfill my responsibility to live with and try to make up for the bad ones. I had to believe that someday, I’d have one final road trip, and that’s all it would be: one final road trip. Odds were, even that would be taken without me; whatever was left of what I am now might bounce around in a coffin in the back of a truck, or fly on the wind in a million microscopic pieces once I met my end.
I wouldn’t ask for more than that. One final road trip feels like a pretty good deal.
In my heart, I truly believe this is how it is. I wasn’t always as sure as I am now, and honestly, I don’t believe I ever will be completely sure. Who of us truly can be? I’ve just found an answer that makes living this crazy life a little easier for me to bear. It gives my heart a kind of peace I never had before about how I choose to live. Whether what I believe is actually the case, well, we’ll all eventually find out. Until then, I will live as if this is all I will be given and hope I’m doing okay.
My truth, however, isn’t necessarily every Wiccan’s belief. As with so much in Wicca, the number of theories and thoughts about the afterlife probably equals the number of witches themselves. Many people I know found their own truth within an existing system. Reincarnation is a popular belief, the idea that you return surrounded by the same core group of souls through every lifetime, over and over. In addition, while a good portion of Wiccans believe in reincarnation, others believe in Summerland. (Some Wiccans believe in both.) Summerland is similar to heaven in many ways, though there is no bar of behavior to meet for entrance into Summerland; even the souls of the wicked are admitted. Among those who believe in reincarnation, it is sometimes said to be a place of rest between earthly incarnations, providing a place to reflect on all you learned in your life and choose what you may need to experience in the next life—yes, some believe you actually get to have a say in what is to come, just not the details—so that with each incarnation you can strive to do better, to learn more, to help more, and to be more.
For others, who don’t believe in reincarnation, Summerland is a sort of Wiccan Shangri-La, though it’s different for every person. There you are reunited with those who have gone before you, and you can watch over those you left behind. The general idea is that once you have learned all you need and have lived the full gamut of emotional experiences, you can stay in Summerland for eternity.
Regardless of these differences, all Wiccans simply believe we have a place on the wheel. Where that wheel ends, where each of us stops in the spinning and what that means, well, that’s up to each witch to figure out.
Often, that’s no simple task. For some Wiccans, research is the path to peace, while others form their ideas purely through discussion. I often find those of us who have broken away from organized belief can be a bit annoying to everyone else: we’re drowning in curiosity and overflowing with questions. Yet the process of asking those questions and stumbling upon my own answers (as well as learning to make peace with the unknown) has made the ground beneath my feet feel steadier—somehow now I feel more substantial and resilient than I ever felt simply accepting the answers someone handed down to people like me lifetimes ago.
Seeking Forgiveness
I remember, as a child, sitting in the pews of a quiet church early in the morning, waiting my turn to confess my sins. I was always terrified. I would stare at the Virgin Mary, resolute before Gabriel, and say a million apologies to her before I ever reached the confessional.
It was supposed to make me feel better, this chance to have all I had done wrong immediately forgiven. I would say my prayer and list out all my misdeeds. I’d slowly count them out on my fingers. I felt like there must be a perfect number of sins, one that showed I was really trying but still acknowledged that I could never be perfect. I eventually settled on between six and eight, and I remember consciously making sure I had transgressions enough for each designated finger. One hand of sins weirdly felt like not enough, but two hands full seemed like way too many. Even so, I always feared if I had too many sin-free fingers left over, the priest would know that I wasn’t listing all my sins, or that I was obviously forgetting a truly important transgression or two. Was that an even greater offense, to completely forget a sin? I didn’t know, but it felt like it might be. And so I sat, listing every possible transgression, no matter how small, and steeling myself for my inevitable punishment.
My penance was never much, despite my fears to the contrary. I would be assigned an apology to someone, a handful of Our Fathers, perhaps a full rosary. (Man, the rosaries killed me. I always felt so bad when we had to bring Mary into it—I felt like she had dealt with enough, and the idea of disappointing her was always particularly heartbreaking to my small soul.)
Yet,