An Afternoon at the Cemetery

I like cemeteries with upright grave markers. Headstones of various widths, heights; cement benches, Epitaphs. Ok. "like" is not the best word. I am drawn to old style cemeteries. I have a feeling of reverence while walking through such places, similar to the hushed respect, peace I feel in an old-fashioned church with stained glass or arched windows, wood pews … I feel tranquil in such places away from this world’s strife. I don’t get that sense at contemporary cemeteries with grave markers which lie flush to the ground; I presume the sterile sameness is for ease of landscape maintenance. Those cemeteries evoke thoughts of golf courses, or massive manicured lawns.

This afternoon, as the light slants across the gravel drive between swathes of close-cropped lawn, I sit on the cool grass with my back against the end of a cement bench and dully contemplate the rows of flat headstones before me. I came here with the goal of finding peace. Final respite from the pain this life doles out. This cemetery is of the contemporary sort, yet I chose it for two reasons: First, covering a large flat plot of land beyond the far south suburbs of Chicago it is remote - surrounded only by corn fields and waste land. Second, I came to this place because of the people whose bodies are entombed here.

Near the northwest end of the cemetery is the section reserved for military graves. My husband’s brother has lain there since he put a bullet in his head in despair more than a quarter of a century ago.

Close to the main "boulevard" of the cemetery, my father-in-law’s body has rested for 10 years. The funeral memorial service on his Eightieth birthday was more of a celebration of his life, a graduation or retirement party for a faithful servant than a sorrowful farewell.

I am resting near my buddy Nancy’s gravesite. Nearly six years have passed since she died. I miss her still. I can read the marker from here:

Nancy Dean Keene

07-19-1936 ~ 01-02-2007

FULLY RELY ON GOD

Emblazoned on the brass marker, it reflects Nancy’s motto. A few months after Nancy died, Beth and I came here and applied a small brass frog to each end of the words. I reflect on her motto: FROG. Fully Rely On God. In self-defense, I cry out, "I do!" Yet, as the words fade, I cannot justify myself and claim allegiance to God as the bottles of pills in my pocket serve to incriminate me and my defection. I am here to die. I plan to choke down as many pills as I have and then to wait for my end.

The sun washing along my side warms me slightly. It is calm here, the distant car sounds barely invade. Even the occasional birdsong is hushed.

Few visitors are in the cemetery this late fall afternoon. I have privacy, until a figure approaches me down the gravel lane. His stride is even, unhurried. He wears a simple dark jacket and casual slacks. I avoid looking at his face, I do not wish to make contact with anyone. Yet in my peripheral vision, I am aware of dark hair, a steady gaze.

He sits on the bench near enough to touch, if I reached out to him. Near enough to touch me, if I let my protective personal space barriers down.

"What are you plans?" He asks. His words are clear, his tone measured. I sense that he knows my visit is not benign.

"I have no plans," I reply flatly as images of long-held hopes, desires appear in my mind, and blow away like chaff in the wind. Is that a source of my despair? Hindered dreams which I would not give to God for guidance, lop-sided relationships, loved ones which I drove away with my demands for more closeness…

"You came here with a purpose," his words threaten to expose my dark plan on this quiet weekday afternoon.

"How do you know?" Suddenly, I turn to face him, my words are angry at the interruption to my solemnness.

Unruffled by my retort, he asks me, "Do you grieve alone?"

I slump silently on the ground. I feel angry and hurt to remember my living loved ones. I would accuse them of abandonment, even as I am prepared to flee this life~ to rely only on self.

"You are not alone- Truly." Softly, clearly spoken the words are like a caress that wipes away the moisture on my cheeks.

I look into His eyes and see love, compassion, comfort, understanding. And I cry out, "Why don’t I feel You near me? Do you leave me? Why did you allow this most recent sorrow? Why leave children motherless? How can this death work together for good? I cannot understand…" my words grow quieter, as the sorrow seeps out of me. I lay my head on my arms and leaned toward the bench. I feel the gentle pressure of His arm resting across my shoulders and warmth ~ hope? begins to fill me.

"But, I can call out to You. Again… "I can pray Your words to You. Honor Your words, I pray. Give us ‘peace that passes understanding,’ I cry like the psalmist, ‘my flesh and my heart fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.’ Oh, God, my God, heal broken hurting hearts…"

I am sobbing out the pain, loss, fears and even anger at the recent unexpected horror of a young mother's sudden death and the grief I feel for her widow, for her three young children. And just two weeks after the young mother's unexpected death, the report of another massacre, the Connecticut school shootings which killed little children and tore families to pieces from another angle. On this December day I weep for motherless children, little girls who no longer have one of their "authors" to help write their childhood story. I weep for young lives destroyed. I weep for parents, families who have had dreams ripped away by senseless cruelty.

Life is too fleeting… Earlier today, I painted horses running free on a beach. Horses bring me joy, I revel in the sight, smell, and feel of horses. I paint, I write, I try to reach out to comfort, to offer condolence. I don’t know how…

I continue to pray, pray, pray.

Groanings, heart-wrenching pleas for comfort, peace, healing.

And my unbelief cries out: "Healing? How can one heal from such a loss. It is an amputation of a crucial family member, beloved, precious, unique."

"God help them," I plead.

And I must trust that He will help all who call out to Him...

He is gone now, yet His presence gives me strength, and comfort. I rise from the ground and empty the bottle of pills into a trash bin as I return to my car, and to the world of the living.