A Long Road Home
A trip to the past evokes happiness, grief and love.
Flowers fill the A-frame sanctuary of United Lutheran Church in Brocket, N.D., after Thor’s funeral // photo by Finn Wendt
Written by Finn Wendt
After a long 23 hours cramped in my family’s dead-bug-pelted van, we finally rolled into the gravel parking lot of the Sunlac Inn in Lakota, North Dakota. It was 10 p.m. on a sticky July night and the lone buzzing light pole barely illuminated the two-story emotionless brick motel. I had been excited to stay in the establishment that my great aunt and uncle, Joann and Thor Thompson, put their hearts into for about 20 years before they sold it. Once I saw the inside looked like a Midwest motel version of the hotel from “The Shining,” I was over it.
The room was surprisingly modern when compared to the cornfields surrounding it. It was the closest thing I’d seen to home for the past 1300 miles. Still, I found it difficult to fall asleep. Part of it was due to the obscurity of my environment, but mostly it was the anxiety I had for the next day, the day of Thor’s funeral.
I can only recall meeting Thor once. I was three years old when my family took the same road trip nearly two decades ago. I remember Thor taking me on a bumpy ride across their farm property on his new two-seat all-terrain vehicle that he called Little Red.
Thor holds me while he visits Lynnwood, Wash., in 2002 // photo courtesy of the Schafer family photo collection.
And how could I forget his trophy room? Thor was an avid hunter. Over 50 animals lined the walls of a guest bedroom in the basement of their home, it was like a museum. In fact, over the years Thor would regularly host field trips, Cub Scout meetings and curious kids in his “Africa Room” where he’d teach about the animals and describe his international adventures.
We left the Sunlac the next morning to go to the funeral in Brocket, a dying town of 65 residents and several cars past their prime parked off the gravel roads. The church was a little red A-frame that humbly accounted for the population and its Norwegian ancestry.
With no prior warning, ushers whisked us into the front pews to sit with Thor’s immediate family. Besides a yearly Christmas gift, I never had regular contact with the Thompsons. We went to support our extended family and represent my grandparents who were too old to make the trip. That’s why I was shocked to feel a slight pressure build up in my chest and eyes when the casket bearers entered. I truly realized that this man, who I have fond memories of, had met his mortality.
This shock evoked emotions that I’d never had to deal with before. I felt powerless, there was nothing I could do to change the situation. I struggled to hold back tears. I found out that grief is not something you get over, but a process of adapting to loss.
A hearse sits outside of United Lutheran Church in Brocket, N.D., during the reception following Thor’s funeral // photo by Finn Wendt
After the service, we all gathered to eat and repeatedly announce how unbelievably old I am since I’d last met these faces I didn’t recognize.
My family was invited back to the Thompson’s house for lunch. I sat in silence for the entire drive, trying to understand the turmoil inside me.
About 10 of us sat in their living room sharing stories of Thor that were not quite fit for the ceremony. I felt guilty that I hadn’t spent more time with him, but it also brought a sense of comfort to be surrounded by people full of love and appreciation for him.
The room was equal parts joyful and sad. This open and raw communication brought the tone down from its peak an hour or so earlier.
Come dinnertime, or supper as I found North Dakotans ruthlessly insist, we feasted on the sympathy food that Joann had accumulated over the past week. Feeling full, my second cousins announced they were heading out to see the sunset from a slough adjacent to the property. I joined them.
The sun sets over a slough near Lakota, N.D., after Thor’s funeral on July 28, 2021 // photo by Finn Wendt
The wildfire smoke that had covered the sky for weeks had dissipated. As we arrived at the slough, we were greeted with the most gorgeous fiery pink sunset I’d ever witnessed. It was an extremely heavy moment, both emotionally and physically considering the 80-degree heat and humidity. Life, with its full spectrum of emotions, felt uniquely beautiful in that moment.
We then headed back to the Sunlac for one last night. The motel had a more comforting feeling knowing the love that went into that place. I was emotionally exhausted. I no longer cared about the permanent cigarette smell or the exposed insulation above the shower, the journey was complete. It was time to head home.