Cemetery Stories

Today I walked in a cemetery which has grown next to a country Methodist Church for over a hundred years.  I was stopped in my tracks by a small headstone which read, "Infant child of (and then it named the father and mother) born and died June 1895."  And then only a step away was another small headstone exactly like the first with the same inscription.  The only difference was it read, " born and died September 1897."   Suddenly the air seemed to be pulled out of the place where I was standing.  Next to the two was a larger headstone with the mother's name and it read, "died 1897."  Cemeteries tell stories no one wants to read.

 

Whenever I stand in such places and get captured in such a moment, I am caused to think that here came and stood broken and grieving people.  Where I stand is where tears of broken hearts have been poured upon the ground.  While I understand clearly the definition of holy, it has always seemed that ground made wet with the tears of the grieving is made holy in a way that defies definition.  I can understand why my mother always cautioned us about stepping on graves and playing on grave markers.  Where those stories are spoken, there needs to be the fullest measure of respect and honor given.

 

Grief is something all of us experience.  Reading the story of this family who lived over 125 years ago brought some of mine to the surface again.  I wept for them.  I wept for me.  As I left there I hoped that someone stood with them and read the holy words, "God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.  Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." (Revelation 21:4)  And I hope, too, that whoever stood with them that day quoted what Jesus said at the tomb of Lazarus, "I am the resurrection and the life."  (John 11:25)  I pray they were comforted and that they live rejoicing in the heavenly place.