I enjoy walking with my dog, Coal, in the cemetery of my church which is a few hundred yards from my house. It has recently been blacktopped and is very convenient, and has plenty of room for my dog to run without getting into trouble.
As I walk, I enjoy looking at tombstones. This is something that has always intrigued me, even as a child. I like to imagine the stories behind those who are buried there.
I have always enjoyed history, so I find it interesting to look at the stones and imagine what life was like during earlier times. I see families who are buried next to one another, the death years too close to the birth years. The mothers and fathers, the children who were born and died the same day or year. The baby who was born and died soon after, a few years back, but the parents who were unable to afford a tombstone for her until just recently. The graves that are decorated a little like gaudy store window displays, because the ones remaining here on earth are at a loss about how to prove to the world that they really did care about their loved ones, even though while they were here on earth it was hard to see. The poems inscribed on the stones, written by children and grandchildren. The graves in the back marked by small stones that are now impossible to read. I’m told they belong to slaves.
The grave of the woman who left most of her money to the cemetery rather to those in this world who are living in poverty or abuse or other less than ideal situations.
Thirty-six years ago when we moved to this community, there was not one soul buried in the cemetery who I knew. Not one. But within a year or so, that changed. A man who attended the church died suddenly while he was water-skiing. He was older than we were, but not old. He had a small daughter. He’s the first person I talked to when I walked into the church that first Sunday morning.
It was very sobering. Death usually is sobering. Especially unexpected, sudden death.
As the years went by, more and more people inhabited the cemetery by my house. More and more, they were people I knew. The couple who were so good to my kids when they were born and when they were little. They were like grandparents to them. The woman who I fainted on when I was pregnant with my first child while the District Superintendent was preaching. The man who was a Baptist preacher but came to our church and even preached there occasionally, (shhhh, I don’t think the DS knew that) and whose small, flat tombstone is broken and whose granddaughter in now a preacher. His wife, who died many years later but doesn’t have a tombstone. The man who always admonished the people in our congregation to do something for someone else, who died of ALS. The former pianist who played for me to sing at my grandmother’s funeral and her husband, who were so supportive of me when I answered the call to preach, even though they were not 100% sure a woman should preach. We all sang so many songs together. I miss them all so much.
Most recently, the 25-year-old who was diagnosed with a sinus infection and ended up dying less than a week later now resides there. I remember when she was born, when she graduated high school and college. I am still so sad about this, about her parents and the rest of her family, and their loss... about the soon-to-be-born nephew who will never know her this side of heaven. Unexpected, sudden death.
What I’ve learned is this—a cemetery is a peaceful place to walk, but it’s also very thought provoking. It makes me think about how short life can be, how much can be accomplished (or not accomplished!) in that short period of time. I’ve learned that people feel guilty about what happened to their loved ones here on earth and sometimes try to make up for it by piling dollar store decorations on their graves. I’ve learned that some treasure the dead more than the living.
May I remember to never do that, to never live with regrets of how I treated people when they were living. May I remember how fortunate I am to have many of my family members still with me, though I do miss the ones who have gone on. May I also remember that we never know when our time will come and may we live each moment to the fullest.
As I walk, I enjoy looking at tombstones. This is something that has always intrigued me, even as a child. I like to imagine the stories behind those who are buried there.
I have always enjoyed history, so I find it interesting to look at the stones and imagine what life was like during earlier times. I see families who are buried next to one another, the death years too close to the birth years. The mothers and fathers, the children who were born and died the same day or year. The baby who was born and died soon after, a few years back, but the parents who were unable to afford a tombstone for her until just recently. The graves that are decorated a little like gaudy store window displays, because the ones remaining here on earth are at a loss about how to prove to the world that they really did care about their loved ones, even though while they were here on earth it was hard to see. The poems inscribed on the stones, written by children and grandchildren. The graves in the back marked by small stones that are now impossible to read. I’m told they belong to slaves.
The grave of the woman who left most of her money to the cemetery rather to those in this world who are living in poverty or abuse or other less than ideal situations.
Thirty-six years ago when we moved to this community, there was not one soul buried in the cemetery who I knew. Not one. But within a year or so, that changed. A man who attended the church died suddenly while he was water-skiing. He was older than we were, but not old. He had a small daughter. He’s the first person I talked to when I walked into the church that first Sunday morning.
It was very sobering. Death usually is sobering. Especially unexpected, sudden death.
As the years went by, more and more people inhabited the cemetery by my house. More and more, they were people I knew. The couple who were so good to my kids when they were born and when they were little. They were like grandparents to them. The woman who I fainted on when I was pregnant with my first child while the District Superintendent was preaching. The man who was a Baptist preacher but came to our church and even preached there occasionally, (shhhh, I don’t think the DS knew that) and whose small, flat tombstone is broken and whose granddaughter in now a preacher. His wife, who died many years later but doesn’t have a tombstone. The man who always admonished the people in our congregation to do something for someone else, who died of ALS. The former pianist who played for me to sing at my grandmother’s funeral and her husband, who were so supportive of me when I answered the call to preach, even though they were not 100% sure a woman should preach. We all sang so many songs together. I miss them all so much.
Most recently, the 25-year-old who was diagnosed with a sinus infection and ended up dying less than a week later now resides there. I remember when she was born, when she graduated high school and college. I am still so sad about this, about her parents and the rest of her family, and their loss... about the soon-to-be-born nephew who will never know her this side of heaven. Unexpected, sudden death.
What I’ve learned is this—a cemetery is a peaceful place to walk, but it’s also very thought provoking. It makes me think about how short life can be, how much can be accomplished (or not accomplished!) in that short period of time. I’ve learned that people feel guilty about what happened to their loved ones here on earth and sometimes try to make up for it by piling dollar store decorations on their graves. I’ve learned that some treasure the dead more than the living.
May I remember to never do that, to never live with regrets of how I treated people when they were living. May I remember how fortunate I am to have many of my family members still with me, though I do miss the ones who have gone on. May I also remember that we never know when our time will come and may we live each moment to the fullest.
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