Several years ago a church member told me about a special request that her late husband had made to her before his death. He had requested that his ashes be scattered over the Lumbee River. I thought that his desire was simply for a beautiful spot that would be a place of lasting memories. But she quickly told me that he had spent a lot of time on that river in the early years of his life growing up in Lumberton, North Carolina.

Her late husband spent many childhood and teenage days swimming and playing in the river and had made many overnight canoe trips down the river. Following the currents of the Lumbee, he and his friends would travel down the river until it merged with the Pee Dee River in South Carolina and finally to the Atlantic Ocean. They would sleep in hammocks tied between trees on the shore so that they would be a little bit more out of reach of the snakes.

The river snakes, he had told her, would sometimes fall out of the trees that provided a tall canopy of green shading the black waters. The Spanish moss hanging from the cypress trees hid the snakes from view, but their distinctive plop in the water as they fell from the branches always alerted the young men of their presence.

In great and loving detail, she shared with me her plans for the scattering of the ashes in keeping with her late husband’s wishes. She wanted to take a short excursion down the river in kayaks to scatter the ashes in the Lumbee from our boats and wondered if I could help in this process. The plans were to have a memorial service for the family and work associates from UNC–Pembroke.

Her late husband had co-authored a very important work on the history of the Lumbee Indians that had assisted immeasurably in their quest for federal recognition as a nation. Because of his work with the Lumbee Nation, the tribal leaders wanted to be in attendance as well. Family members and friends would speak at the service that was going be held at the river near the beach where we would disembark from the river trip. A Catawba Native American named Hawk would also be in attendance to burn a smudge pot full of white sage and other fragrant herbs on the water’s edge. While the smudge pot filled the river’s shore with a heavy earthy scent, Hawk would play traditional Catawba songs on his river flute. Since I had access to several kayaks through my brothers, I volunteered to equip us for the excursion.

Floating down the Lumbee River in our surreal funeral procession proved to be both memorable and beautiful. The widow led the way in a bright red kayak followed by her son and step-daughter in separate kayaks. I came along behind the children in my own kayak, and a friend from the church joined our little fleet in an odd little boat called a gunoe which was equipped with a trolling motor.

The Lumbee River epitomizes the idea of a sleepy southern low country black water river. The quiet low current in no way disturbs the tranquility of the magnificent cypress trees with their knees sticking up through the sandy shores like oddly shaped moss covered gnomes. The Spanish moss and the feathery leaves moved slowly in the cool breeze that seemed to gently push us down the river. Paddling the kayaks was almost not necessary except for steering the little pointed vessels in the direction that we wanted to go.

As we made progress from the landing at McMillan Beach to our destination at Stephens Park, the stillness and beauty of this river world that had embraced us made the sweet sadness of the scattering of the ashes even more poignant. I watched from a distance in my kayak as the widow took ashes and scattered them across the waters. I knew that her tears accompanied them.

The sun broke through the canopy for a few seconds and the ashes that fell from her hand were caught in a small cool breeze. The ashes lingered in the breeze as they came from her fingers. Slowly, the light gray mist created by the ashes danced out from her kayak across the black waters of the river.

I wondered for a second if these sacred remains would ever land in the water, thinking that maybe they would be caught up into the sky. But slowly, almost reluctantly, they gently made their way down to the surface of the waters. Like a veil across the currents, I watched as time and time again, his ashes became one with this ancient river that had contributed happiness and beauty to his life.

Thank you, Lord, for sweet memories of past lives that continue in faith forever. Thank you for peace and contentment in knowing our lives are secure in grace. Thank you for strength for every day and for the challenges that are brought our way. Thank you for valuing our experiences and for adding the Holy Spirit to every precious moment.
God Bless, Dan