Straight From The Hart
By Joan Rowden Hart
Reflections on Cemetery Winds.
For the rest of this week, and over the holiday weekend, most of us
will visit a cemetery or several of them. Some will come bearing
floral sprays and vases to place on graves of loved ones. Friends
will meet and greet, some will shed tears, but all will feel the
inevitable winds which seem to always blow through a cemetery.
Some time ago I stood in one of our local cemeteries, and after
arriving back home, I went to my computer and wrote the following
reflections on my time there.
I enter the cemetery, and it lies silent before me. The tombstones
stand as sentinels as if there is a need to protect the stories that
the upright stones would tell.
So I stand in the quietness of this place, and while my eyes are
looking at dates and names and epitaphs, the ears of my soul are
straining to hear the hidden secrets of the lives of those whose bones
now lie beneath this sod.
The words “infant daughter” are covered with dust and gently brushed
by the tall weeds as the cemetery winds move across the stone.
Why is it there are always winds at the cemetery? Is it God’s way of
reminding us that memories are ever present in the cemetery….that life
moves on even when the bodies of those who have lived are at rest?
I stand before the roughly hewed stone and wonder about the infant
daughter. Was she the much desired baby of a couple who waited years
to conceive, only to deliver the tiny lifeless form to be carried to
the cemetery immediately after birth?
If so, then her tiny body would have held the hopes and dreams of a
lifetime; the cooing, nursing baby at breast; the unceasing busy-ness
of a toddler caring for her own baby doll; the awkward nervousness of
a young woman on her first date; the virgin bride dressed in white on
her wedding day; the grandchildren who were never to be. With what
sadness and grief this tiny grave would have been filled.
My eyes see in the distance a stone engraved with a heart pierced with
a Cupid’s arrow like you might see carved in a tree deep in the
forest; there are names there with birthdates and a wedding
anniversary, and the unique-ness of the dates of death, only a few
days apart.
Did this couple love so deeply that one could not contemplate life
without the other…and the grief was more than a heart, already
weakened by age, could bear?
What kind of love did it take to be soulmates for so many years when
so many other marriage vows were taken so lightly and forgotten? What
bound this couple together through years of hard work, childbirth, and
sickness?
Then I see the answer as I stoop to brush away the hardened soil and
gravel which has been pressed against the stone’s base by the cemetery
winds; and the words of Fanny Crosby appear “Blessed Assurance, Jesus
Is Mine”.
There are other tombstones in this cemetery, tombstones highlighted by
American flags;and the engraved dates speak of young men who died in
the prime of life, making the ultimate sacrifice for their country…
in World Wars I and II, and in the frozen snows of Korea, and the
humid jungles of Viet Nam; their American Flags waving bravely and
valiantly in the cemetery winds.
I see weather beaten tombstones, deteriorating with age. I notice the
shiny, polished tombstones at the head of newly filled graves; red
clay dirt, still piled high, and covered with white baskets of fresh
flowers, now overturned by the winds, the cemetery winds.
Death knows no age, nor gender, nor race, nor ethnic background, nor
religious denomination. It has come to every name in this cemetery as
it will come to each one of us, in due time.
And God’s Word says that each of us will bloom for a time and then we
too will fade away, as the grass in the field comes one day and then
the next day it is gone, and no one remembers it’s place.
But people will remember us, whether for good or bad.
In years to come, strangers will look at our tombstones, notice the
dates, wonder about us;who we were, how we lived, how we died. Loved
ones will stand where our bones will then lie and feel the winds, the
cemetery winds; blowing memories of us across their minds just as
they blow the dirt across the mounds and use the tall grasses as
wind-held brooms to sweep away the dust.
My mind snaps back to the present. My eyes sweep across the face of my
watch. And I’m surprised to see that I’ve been in the cemetery for
only a short while, but many scenes have crossed my mind in just those
few moments; memories of days past, acknowledgement of days yet to
come, all blown together by the winds, the ever-present cemetery
winds.
By Joan Rowden Hart
Reflections on Cemetery Winds.
For the rest of this week, and over the holiday weekend, most of us
will visit a cemetery or several of them. Some will come bearing
floral sprays and vases to place on graves of loved ones. Friends
will meet and greet, some will shed tears, but all will feel the
inevitable winds which seem to always blow through a cemetery.
Some time ago I stood in one of our local cemeteries, and after
arriving back home, I went to my computer and wrote the following
reflections on my time there.
I enter the cemetery, and it lies silent before me. The tombstones
stand as sentinels as if there is a need to protect the stories that
the upright stones would tell.
So I stand in the quietness of this place, and while my eyes are
looking at dates and names and epitaphs, the ears of my soul are
straining to hear the hidden secrets of the lives of those whose bones
now lie beneath this sod.
The words “infant daughter” are covered with dust and gently brushed
by the tall weeds as the cemetery winds move across the stone.
Why is it there are always winds at the cemetery? Is it God’s way of
reminding us that memories are ever present in the cemetery….that life
moves on even when the bodies of those who have lived are at rest?
I stand before the roughly hewed stone and wonder about the infant
daughter. Was she the much desired baby of a couple who waited years
to conceive, only to deliver the tiny lifeless form to be carried to
the cemetery immediately after birth?
If so, then her tiny body would have held the hopes and dreams of a
lifetime; the cooing, nursing baby at breast; the unceasing busy-ness
of a toddler caring for her own baby doll; the awkward nervousness of
a young woman on her first date; the virgin bride dressed in white on
her wedding day; the grandchildren who were never to be. With what
sadness and grief this tiny grave would have been filled.
My eyes see in the distance a stone engraved with a heart pierced with
a Cupid’s arrow like you might see carved in a tree deep in the
forest; there are names there with birthdates and a wedding
anniversary, and the unique-ness of the dates of death, only a few
days apart.
Did this couple love so deeply that one could not contemplate life
without the other…and the grief was more than a heart, already
weakened by age, could bear?
What kind of love did it take to be soulmates for so many years when
so many other marriage vows were taken so lightly and forgotten? What
bound this couple together through years of hard work, childbirth, and
sickness?
Then I see the answer as I stoop to brush away the hardened soil and
gravel which has been pressed against the stone’s base by the cemetery
winds; and the words of Fanny Crosby appear “Blessed Assurance, Jesus
Is Mine”.
There are other tombstones in this cemetery, tombstones highlighted by
American flags;and the engraved dates speak of young men who died in
the prime of life, making the ultimate sacrifice for their country…
in World Wars I and II, and in the frozen snows of Korea, and the
humid jungles of Viet Nam; their American Flags waving bravely and
valiantly in the cemetery winds.
I see weather beaten tombstones, deteriorating with age. I notice the
shiny, polished tombstones at the head of newly filled graves; red
clay dirt, still piled high, and covered with white baskets of fresh
flowers, now overturned by the winds, the cemetery winds.
Death knows no age, nor gender, nor race, nor ethnic background, nor
religious denomination. It has come to every name in this cemetery as
it will come to each one of us, in due time.
And God’s Word says that each of us will bloom for a time and then we
too will fade away, as the grass in the field comes one day and then
the next day it is gone, and no one remembers it’s place.
But people will remember us, whether for good or bad.
In years to come, strangers will look at our tombstones, notice the
dates, wonder about us;who we were, how we lived, how we died. Loved
ones will stand where our bones will then lie and feel the winds, the
cemetery winds; blowing memories of us across their minds just as
they blow the dirt across the mounds and use the tall grasses as
wind-held brooms to sweep away the dust.
My mind snaps back to the present. My eyes sweep across the face of my
watch. And I’m surprised to see that I’ve been in the cemetery for
only a short while, but many scenes have crossed my mind in just those
few moments; memories of days past, acknowledgement of days yet to
come, all blown together by the winds, the ever-present cemetery
winds.
Comments