A Broken Bond

Before my father-in-law's death back in 2004, he did it so when the opportunity came available to serve as the volunteer caretaker for the local cemetery, I figured it to be something I could do as a way of remembering him and serving the community as well.  The cemetery is not one of these manicured memorial gardens, but a few acres of land on the edge of town managed by the Methodist and the Baptist Churches.  One of my responsibilities is taking care of the upkeep expenses during the year.    

Another responsibility is to sell cemetery lots.  There is no advertising campaign, but a system based on need.  Two kinds of people call to buy grave plots.  There are those who are planning ahead and trying to spare their families the pain of the chore.  The other ones who buy plots are those who have recently lost a spouse, or child, or grandchild and need a resting place.  Unlike the first group, this group comes heavy with grief.   As dark was coming I went today to help a grieving family find that place for a loved one who had died.  

I have had associations with cemeteries all my life.  My father was buried when I was seven years old.  As a pastor I made many trips there with families for funerals and now I continue to go to offer a place and hopefully some comfort to those whose hearts are overwhelmed.  When called to preach over 50 years ago, I could not have imagined choosing to be with people who are grieving, and while I do not seek the task, it still comes and I am grateful in each moment that I stand not alone, but with the Risen Christ who broke the bond of the graveyard long ago.