Taking the Ring

We are back in the Shire.

We got the horrible news about my nephew’s death last Monday morning. Less than 24 hours later Matt, Emily, and I were on our way to the airport. With Mom’s iffy heart, it was important to all of us to get one of the daughters home quickly to be with her and Dad; thankfully it worked out for us.

Flying to Minnesota and driving out to the farm was one of the hardest things I have ever done. In Minneapolis, all three of us would have loved nothing better than to cut and run.

"We are Frodo, taking the ring to the Mountain," said Matt, "and it gets heavier the closer we get."

All day my stunned and feverish mind had been searching vaguely for an analogy, for words to explain what this journey was like. And suddenly my bristly son provided just what I needed.

Frodo, you see, was the Hobbit in Lord of the Rings who was given the commission to take the One Ring to Mt. Doom to throw it back in and destroy it. The closer he got to the mountain, the heavier it got. Yet this was his destiny and his calling, to finish this particular task. And with the help of his friend, he did it.

That story gave me an odd stability all week. "I am taking the ring to the mountain," I kept telling myself, before seeing the family first, before each viewing, before the funeral and burial.

And now, as I said, we are safely back in the Shire.